The Rains of Castamere
by BelovedShadow
Summary: Draco did not hesitate to identify the Golden Trio when they were captured and brought to Malfoy Manor. Voldemort is immediately called and they have no chance to escape. The Light loses the war. Ron and Hermione are killed and The Boy Who Lived begins his training to become The Dark Lord's most prized possession. HPLV slash pair. AU starting from Malfoy Manor in DH.
1. From These Beginnings

**Disclaimer: Just taking the characters out to play!**

 **WARNINGS: This fic contains slash, graphic violence/torture, character death, explicit sexual content, and profanity. Please read at your own discretion.**

 **Pairings: HPLV**

 **A/N: Here we are, another Harrymort by me. This one is almost completely finished already so let me know what day of the week you want to see it updated and I'll post it weekly until it's done, if that sounds good to everybody. I've already written about six chapters and I think it'll have about ten. Anyway, on with the fic!**

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 _And who are you, the proud lord said,  
_ _that I must bow so low?_

 _Only a cat of a different coat,_ _  
_ _that's all the truth I know._

 _In a coat of gold or a coat of red,_ _  
_ _a lion still has claws,_ _  
_ _And mine are long and sharp, my lord,_ _  
_ _as long and sharp as yours._

 _And so he spoke, and so he spoke,_ _  
_ _that Lord of Castamere,_ _  
_ _But now the rains weep o'er his hall,_ _  
_ _with no one there to hear._ _  
_ _Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,_ _  
_ _and not a soul to hear._

 **Chapter One: From These Beginnings – House Smallwood**

It had begun quite suddenly. Their capture. Being brought to Malfoy Manor. Draco recognizing them. Certainly it was only an hour, maybe less. Still, this space of time, however small it might have been, marked the beginning of the changes in Harry's life.

Lucius and Narcissa kept asking Draco if he was sure. If he was positive in his accusation that Harry was really The Boy Who Lived. While Draco did seem somewhat reluctant to commit, he swallowed down his insecurity with a resound nod of his head, and Voldemort was summoned.

Only moments before, Harry knew Voldemort to have been interrogating Grindelwald. He hoped that the distance between Nurmengard and Malfoy Manor was adequate enough for him to make an escape. But again, everything was very sudden. All participants were in constant motion, even Hermione who was being quite still. Harry knew the cogs in her head were turning rapidly. Bellatrix Lestrange stepped into the room sheer seconds after her Lord was called and Harry would remember the look of sheer terror that had come over her face for a long time. She was staring at the Sword of Gryffindor as if haunted by it, and Harry thought to use her distraction as an opportunity. After all, for now, she was doubtlessly the most dangerous person in the room.

He ducked, rapidly, trying to keep a hasty pace even as his forehead started to inflame with agony. He didn't let himself wonder if that meant that Voldemort was coming or that he was close. He could only hope that the persistent horrid burning of his scar didn't already mean that the dark wizard was here. Harry rolled hard to his left and hurled his curled up body at Draco, wincing at the pain from contorting his already swollen face.

Draco was not ready for the physical attack, and allowed his legs to be swept out from under him, falling to the ground, where Harry was already crouched and ready to land another blow. Ron and Hermione must have been suitably distracting the three adults in the room, because Harry managed to yank Draco's wand out of his hand and point it at him. Once he had gained the clear advantage, he stunned his rival and stood back up quickly, turning to see how his friends were making out.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

Voldemort was there. Standing. Simply standing. He had a calm hand raised towards Lucius, presumably having stopped the Malfoy patriarch from interfering with Harry and Draco's tussle on the floor. Hermione and Ron were being held by the Black Sisters, Ron with Narcissa's wand against his neck and his own in her other hand, and Hermione on the ground with one of Bellatrix's heels dug into her back. How had he been such an idiot? To think he could best three death eaters and not get his friends hurt…

He raised Draco's wand and cast a cutting hex at Lucius – the only person he could take down without running the risk of missing and hitting Ron or Hermione. Well, the only person aside from Voldemort. Harry's nemesis seemed to be content just to watch for now, and he planned on giving quite the show, if he could.

His performance was short lived. A quick flick of the wand and Harry's spell dissipated before even hitting its target. He didn't even know which of them had done it. He tried to think of a spell that could safely get his friend's out of their tricky positions, all the while firing every curse he could think of at Lucius, who was standing still, watching as Voldemort and Bellatrix seemed to be making sport of which of them could vaporize Harry's attempts faster.

Bella was cackling, apparently past her earlier distress over the sword. Her laugh rang harsh and hot in Harry's ears and he thought of her at the ministry, after she'd killed Sirius. Suddenly, he turned away from Lucius, taking a furious step forwards.

"Harry don't!" Hermione pleaded, her eyes wide open and watering. She whimpered when Bellatrix dug her foot in harder.

Harry understood what it was that Hermione didn't want him to do. She didn't want him to stoop to their level. She didn't want him to become merciless or cold or cruel or violent. He had told Hermione about how he had tried to Crucio Bellatrix at the ministry. Told her about the swell of power in his chest when he'd spoken the word, but how even then, he hadn't wanted to inflict such pain onto another human being. The intent behind the spell was not enough to truly damage her. He would probably never be sadistic enough to do to Bellatrix Lestrange even half of what she had done to the Longbottoms.

But he was not opposed to trying.

"Crucio!" He hollered, brandishing Draco's wand almost as if it was a muggle gun, and feeling every single piece of hatred that he held for this woman.

It was Hermione, and not Bellatrix who screamed. She shook her head frantically and tried to wiggle out from under Bellatrix's shoe. Harry could see the blood on her back from the way the heel dug into her, but he could also hear Hermione's soft begging. "Please, Harry, no, no…"

Voldemort laughed, and the sound distracted Harry so thoroughly that he didn't throw up a shield in time when the red-eyed man disarmed him. He shot a non-verbal binding spell and Harry felt his limbs stick fast to his body as he fell back to the ground.

Voldemort stalked over to him, and crouched down so that he was eye level with his captive. "Do you know what the Mudblood is asking of you, Harry?" He inquired casually, "I have just looked into its mind. Would you like me to tell you?"

Harry could feel his heart beating too quickly against his chest. He was at a loss for action. What could he do? His thoughts couldn't keep up with his pulse.

"How about you, Blood-Traitor?" Voldemort looked at Ron, "Are you interested in the final thoughts of Hermione Jean Granger?"

Harry was for a moment quite preoccupied with the notion that Voldemort's obsession with him was thorough enough to include knowledge of the full name of his best friend. Then he wondered if maybe Voldemort didn't actually obsess over him more than anything else. The man seemed to obsess over everything as if there was nothing in the world that he could simply do – instead it all had to be plotted and fixated on.

When Harry recovered from his mental getaway he fully realized what it was the Voldemort had just said. Final thoughts?

"NO!" He shouted, panic so thorough that he was able to thrash slightly against the binding spell, although it wasn't enough. Voldemort gave a simple nod of instruction, and Bellatrix grinned wide, pointing her wand at the back of Hermione's head, and with two elated words – bathed her notoriously bushy hair in green light.

Her weeping ended. She was still.

Dead. Harry's mind supplied. She was dead. One moment alive, and the very next, gone. The pure magic of the Killing Curse left a heady energy in the air, and he felt like he was choking on it.

Ron, in his fury, managed to escape Narcissa's hold, and sprinted halfway to Hermione's body before he was also felled by a flash of green. This time, it was so quick that it almost didn't happen, and Harry realized that it had been Voldemort to cast the curse.

Harry felt numb. Grief was washing over him in waves, and at the same time he felt none of it. He was completely in shock. How had it happened so quickly? One second, semi-safely looking for ways to destroy Horcruxes alongside his two best friends… and now this. Both of them dead in front of him in an instant. He was probably next.

"I want to know," He forced out hoarsely. "I want to know what Hermione's … final, thoughts were."

Voldemort turned away from Ron's too-still body and looked at his captive with eyes so empty that Harry almost envied the man his complete and brutal apathy.

"The mudblood was thinking that the three of you were all about to die no matter what, and that it didn't want it's last memory of the world to be of you losing yourself to dark magic."

Harry felt the life being sucked out of him piece by piece as the truth of this situation surrounded him. Ron and Hermione were dead and here he was still alive and talking to Voldemort of all people. He was suddenly very angry, but it was a slow anger. Soft and sluggish, moving thickly through his veins. It didn't make him want to fight the dark, it made him want to burn up the whole house, and himself in it.

"She was a girl, not an it. Her name was Hermione Granger. She's dead now, thanks to you. You could at least show a small bit of respect for the life your cause stole from her." Harry didn't yell it, nor did he whisper. It was a statement that escaped his lips almost like a plea. His eyes looked imploringly up at Voldemort's and he himself did not even understand what it was that he was asking for. Surely, not his own life. He wanted to die. He didn't care anymore. Didn't care about the war or anything else – or at least that's what he told himself. Dumbledore was dead, Hermione was dead, Ron was dead. Soon Harry would be dead too, and with him, all knowledge of Horcruxes. All hope was lost and the light side didn't even know it.

Voldemort did not offer him any words in response. What Harry received instead was a familiar wand pointed at his face. He mused for a moment that he was, right then, the only person alive who had seen this wand pointed between their eyes so many times. It was the last thing he thought before his world went black.

Fortunately, or unfortunately for Harry – his world did not stay black for long.

 **A/N: I know it's not one of the best opening chapters, but I originally intended this fic to be a one-shot, so it does start a little slow. The damn thing started getting ridiculously long and I realized I would have to break it up into a chapter fic, so I put the breaks where they fit best in the story, though it may not necessarily seem that way yet with only one chapter out.**

 **Anyway, thank you to anyone who favorites/subscribes and big kisses to anyone who reviews!**

 **Love you all for reading!**

 **-Beloved**


	2. Iron From Ice

**A/N: Wow! Thank you so much to everyone who read chapter one! I'm so pleased to hear that you guys are interested! Also a huge thanks to everyone who reviewed or messaged me about the chapter, I really love hearing you guys' feedback!**

 **It's been decided that this fic will be updated each THURSDAY from here on out.**

 **Enjoy!**

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 **Chapter Two: Iron From Ice – House Forrester**

The first thing they took from him was his name.

"Nap time is over, _Dog_!"

The voice was hard and unforgiving and completely familiar in the worst of ways, as Harry knew immediately that it belonged to Lucius Malfoy. He was alive, it seemed – but still in Malfoy Manor. He blinked his eyes open slowly.

"What's going on?" He asked, taking in his surroundings. He was in what clearly _used_ to be a very nice bedroom. Presently, there was not a single piece of furniture in it. Harry had been sleeping on the floor, and the only upstanding object to catch attention was Lucius himself, who made quite the imposing impression when a person woke to find him standing over them. Harry could tell though, by the simple things – the lush curtains that covered the windows, the quality of wallpaper, the plush carpet beneath his body. This room was meant to be extravagant and had been quickly reduced to less than its former glory just so that it could house him.

"For today, and today only, I will allow you to ask your insolent questions, _Dog_. I will explain your current situation to you once, and only once. Afterwards, any time you see fit to question me, you will be answered by my wand. Is that understood?"

Harry truly did not feel afraid of Lucius Malfoy. But there was something about this predicament that he found himself in that made him think to take the man seriously for once.

"I understand. Please, explain." He said politely, probably surprising Lucius with his good manners.

"For the last ten days, you have been being held under magical stasis while The Dark Lord decided what was to be done with you. The media has been alerted of the deaths of Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ronald Weasley. You are the Dark Lord's Dog. However, since you are certainly not yet worthy of his company, he has gifted me with the opportunity to train you. There are only two things that I can tell you with any certainty, Dog. The first – is that you will suffer greatly under my tutelage, and the second is that nothing I ever do to you could ever – _ever_ compare to what awaits you when the Dark Lord deems you ready for him. Do you have any questions?"

Harry was frozen in shock. _What_? This made absolutely no sense to him at all.

"You've told everyone that I'm _dead_?"

"No." Lucius replied calmly, "What gave you that impression?"

Harry scowled at the man. "Well you _just_ said that the media has been alerted of Harry Potter's death, didn't you? Everyone thinks I'm dead!"

Lucius smirked at him, "As The Dark Lord's Dog, you hold no affiliation to the Potter boy. He does not concern you, nor is his death in any way relevant to you."

Harry almost laughed at that. This was too much. Sure, he'd heard of mind games like these before. Stealing someone's identity from them was a very important thing to do if you wanted complete control over them, but Harry was far from losing his identity and it was ludicrous for Lucius to play like he already had.

"Sure. And what's all this dog business? I know damn well that I'm not an animal and there's no amount of torture curses that'll make me think I am."

Lucius smiled, and there was something so casually confident there that Harry felt a jolt of fear for the first time since they began speaking.

"We will have to agree to disagree on that front. Well, at least until you _do_ learn to agree with me." He answered, seemingly unconcerned with the idea that there was any chance of Harry _not_ admitting that he was an animal.

"And if I _don't_?" Harry inquired somewhat warily.

"Submission is not being _offered_ to you, Dog. There is no option for you to accept or decline. I am going to beat it into your flesh until your blood is _pumping it_. You are a Dog. You were born to serve The Dark Lord, and by extension, _me_. You have no name. You have no freedom. You have no _choices_. Is that clear?"

Harry wanted to laugh in his face, but he found that he didn't have the energy to. Ten day magical stasis or not, to him it felt like his best friends had _just_ been killed in front of him. He was in a particularly angry and defiant mood with the Voldemort's entire agenda at the moment, but lashing out like a child wasn't going to get him anywhere. Severe resilience was all he had to rely on, and he resolved to do just that.

He was Harry Potter. Son of James and Lily Potter. He was The Chosen One, The Boy Who Lived. He was a child foreseen in a prophecy. He was the leader of Dumbledores Army. He had battled a Basilisk, a Dragon, and Voldemort himself, and lived through it. He was brave, and he was strong, and he was going to hold on to every single piece of himself no matter what.

"I think that's enough questions for now, don't you?"

Harry still couldn't get over the insane idea that Voldemort was trying to get Lucius Malfoy to turn him into some kind of death eater pet, so he didn't think he could handle getting any of the other answers he wanted until he recovered from the biggest bit.

"Sure," He conceded… "Wait, I do have one more."

Lucius motioned for him to go on and ask.

"Where am I?"

"Ah, yes," The blond said as if he had been waiting for that one, "You are still at my manor and will remain here indefinitely. Contrary to popular belief, there is no dungeon here, and as we have already stored the rest of the prisoners in the cellar, I decided to clear out one of the guest rooms for you. If you behave well for the first month, I will reward you by removing the sticking charm on the curtains so that you may look out of the window."

Harry sincerely hoped that he wouldn't be here long enough to consider looking out of the window a privilege.

"Now, let's go over a bit of what we learnt, shall we?"

Harry made no motion to protest, staring at Lucius incredulously. He had a fairly good idea how this was going to go.

"What is your name?"

Harry sighed. This was the part where he was supposed to defiantly shout Harry, and then Lucius would Crucio him into oblivion. No thanks.

"Dog." He responded, automatically. There was no way he was going to play such a Slytherin game with Gryffindor rules and win, after all.

" _Crucio!_ " Lucius shouted, despite Harry's good behavior.

The pain shot through him so quickly and so viciously that he couldn't even think to consider why it was that he was being tortured. When it was over, he was left panting an staring at the new blood-stains on the previously impeccable carpet. He suspected it would get rather dirty during his stay here, but was sure that Lucius must have thought it worth that sacrifice.

"What the hell was that for!" Harry demanded, angrily.

"Did you honestly think that would work, _dog_? Mockery is not acceptance! Compliance is not submission! _Crucio_!"

Harry screamed.

"SHUT UP!" Lucius demanded, ending the Cruciatus and kicking Harry hard in the side when he continued to whimper to himself from the aftershocks. "You will be begging for the torture curse by the end of your first _hour_ with The Dark Lord, foolish _mutt_! You will welcome me with open arms before he's even begun with you! Here you are simpering like a pup when you still know nothing – _nothing_ of true pain. _CRUCIO_!"

His already sensitive nerves could not take it, and Harry passed out only a few moments into the third curse. He was enervated abruptly, however – and thrown right back into the pain, although it was, luckily, Lucius stomping down hard on his finger, and not the Cruciatus curse.

"You will have to excuse my lack of creativity, Dog. Only, I find that a good classic torture curse is always a nice way to start things out. You would think that another curse so closely cast after the Cruciatus would seem to pale in comparison, but I have learnt – as will you, very shortly – that in fact, the nerve damage only makes the next curse all the _worse_. Keep this in mind and do not try to be _sly_ when answering my next question."

Harry nodded, meekly. Only a few minutes at Malfoy's mercy and he already wanted it to end. He knew he would find a way out of this, and of course he knew that he wasn't anyone's _dog¸_ least of all Voldemort's, but he would deal with those realities after he found a way to make the pain stop. He had to lie more convincingly, he knew – but how could he? They both knew that he was a hard-headed lion through and through.

"To whom do you belong, _Dog_?"

Harry did not belong to anyone. He definitely did not belong to Voldemort. He knew that the answer Lucius wanted was Voldemort, just as he knew that if he took the easy way out, he would be cursed again.

"I am afraid to answer, Sir." He admitted, hoping that perhaps there was some mercy to be offered for his honesty.

Lucius bared his teeth cruelly, "Are you wondering whether to tell my truth or yours? There is no one or the other, Dog. Only _the_ truth, and the time it will take for you to accept it."

The Malfoy patriarch didn't speak the curse aloud this time, but that didn't stop Harry from believing in it. It wasn't dark magic, he could feel that straight away from the lack of tension in the air when it first shot towards him. He couldn't feel it, but that offered him no comfort. Lucius summoned a large leather whip, and banished Harry's clothes. He didn't have enough time to be embarrassed about his nudity, because the second the clothes were gone the whip was lashing his skin.

"I want you to let me know when you can no longer feel the lashes," Lucius announced, sending the whip quickly through the air again. Harry felt it tear open the skin of his back and shrieked. He was beginning to feel a small chill, and glanced at the window. The whip came down on his face.

"Would Dumbledore's Order allow Harry Potter to be doomed to this fate? I think not. Surely, you _must_ be a worthless mangy _hound_." Lucius mused, whipping Harry across the face again, he could feel the sting of blood dripping into his eyes and out of his mouth, and he coughed, shivering slightly as the chill increased.

"Harry Potter would not be so foolish as to let the light side down over a simple _taboo_. Harry Potter would not let Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley _die_. Those heinous acts were committed by _you_! A filthy, disgusting, _mongrel_!"

Almost every other word was accented by the whip cracking down – now on Harry's thighs. He was determined not to let the words get to him. He had fucked up. Royally so. And it had resulted in something too horrible to imagine, but that didn't mean that he could push the blame off of himself by claiming that he wasn't even human. After all, his humanity was what allowed him to make mistakes in the first place.

Lucius kicked him over so that he was lying on his back and Harry shrieked as the whip came down hard on his belly, slicing cruelly into the skin. Only … the blood. It wasn't right. It drooled out slowly, much too slowly for a gash so deep. He shivered again, the coldness wracking through his whole body, and then managed to put two and two together just as the whip curled around his neck, choking him agonizingly and yanking him two feet forward, dragging his open wounds against the not-so-plush-feeling-anymore carpet.

The next lash hurt a little less and Harry truly began to panic. His eyes widened, and he tried to scoot away from Lucius' determined assault, but his body was too sluggish and numb. Too numb. Much, _much_ too numb, as another lash tore into his chest and he was barely tickled by it. Every beat of his heart felt like it was shattering his chest – pumping hot poison into his cracking and icy veins.

"Do you have something to tell me, Dog?" Lucius asked.

"I … I c-can't feel the lashes." He managed to get out, coughing from the effort and then screaming as he felt every piece of himself shattering when he moved.

"Do you understand what I have done to you?"

Harry felt tears streaming down his face – or was that still the blood? No. The blood was cold and sticky against his skin. The tears became ice halfway down his cheeks. His teeth were chattering and his body looked pale blue apart from the open pinkish welts and the thick, gooey blood.

"Y-you're f-freezing my veins." Harry concluded, throwing his head back and shrieking again.

The blond laughed. "Yes, I've been told often that it feels that way. Truly, it is just a slow building cooling charm. It can't do you any true injury. The damage on your nerve endings from the cruciatus is what does all of the work. If I were to cast this on you without having used the torture curse first, a simple hot cup of tea would heal any discomfort."

As Lucius spoke, he continued to whip Harry. The captive refused to scream. After all, he couldn't even feel them anymore. His skin was too numb. Everything was too numb. He could see though – and the horror that had been made of his flesh was worth screaming by itself even without feeling it. Lucius waved his wand and three potions zipped into the room. He caught all three vials with his hand and then finally – finally – banished the whip.

"This introductory meeting was quite necessary, Dog – but I do have a great deal more things to attend to. We wizards are in the middle of a _war_ , you see. The first potion is a blood replenishment, that I must insist you take immediately," He threw the vial at Harry's head, and it hit him hard but did not break, although it did bruise his cheekbone. With shaking hands that he could not even feel – he managed to drink down the potion after much fumbling.

"The next potion is for Nutrition. I would suggest sipping at this one, as I have not yet decided when I will be making another for you, and it would truly be a shame if you were to die of starvation. I hear it's rather long and unpleasant." He held up a thick and murky brown potion and tossed it to Harry's side. Wisely, Harry didn't take any yet. The vial was no bigger than his thumb, and he'd been given twice as much in the Hospital Wing just for missing one day's worth of food. He would have to use this drop by drop if he wanted to survive longer than two weeks.

"Lastly, is a simple Dreamless Sleep potion. It pairs nicely with a certain spell of The Dark Lord's invention that has already been cast on you. He has instructed me to give you a single vial of Dreamless Sleep as a special gift from him to you. Use it wisely, Dog. It is only enough for one night."

Lucius set the last vial down on the windowsill and left the room.

It took Harry only one hour to realize that the cooling charm was wearing off. That with every moment the pain of the numbing stinging ice disappeared, the pain of the lashes increased. He was screaming well after Lucius' timely exit, and longer still into the night for days afterwards. No relief came. His host did not return for fifteen days, and even then, he brought only more pain and misery with him.

Harry had rationed the nutrient potion well but was still glad for another when Lucius left after his next visit.

Also, he now understood why Voldemort had thought to "gift" him with a single vial of dreamless sleep.

Nightmares. Every single time he closed his eyes for longer than a minute. Sometimes he dreamt of the true horrors of his life – Sirius falling through the veil, Hermione and Ron being ended by a simple green light, Dumbledore's pleading as he spoke his last words to Severus Snape. Worse, though – were the ones of events that had not truly occurred. The torture, the rape, the _hell_ that he knew would come when Lucius truly handed him over to Voldemort. There were two points that Malfoy was constant with in the visits he paid Harry. Firstly, Harry was a dog. Nothing more. Secondly, he was _Voldemort's_ dog, not Lucius' and whatever he went through here, was only feeble preparation for what was to come.

 **XxBxExLxOxVxExDxX**

A little over a month into his stay, things began to go sharply downhill – if that was even possible. Lucius was having quite a lot more time for him, it seemed. It took Harry only two days in his gleeful presence to realize why. The dark had won the war. Voldemort had won.

This introduced the absolute _worst_ of Harry's nightmares. The final battle. He saw it differently every time, the way it went, how things had played out. But one thing he saw the same every single time, even if it's methods did vary – and that was the death of every single member of the order. Every single student left at Hogwarts who had chosen to oppose their new Lord.

He saw Neville Longbottom tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange just like his parents, and then murdered thoughtlessly in a flash of green, just like Ron an Hermione. He saw Fred Weasley manage to overcome the imperio that had instructed him to kill George, only to find that George was not strong enough to do the same.

He saw Molly's defeated face. The way she clung to life with hardly any enthusiasm after seeing all of her children fall before her. She had died smiling, as if she could already see them waiting.

Harry wanted to die right along with them. Still, he didn't. He kept taking his nutrient potion, kept insisting that he was his own person even when Lucius carved _D-O-G_ into his forehead in parody of the famous scar.

Even when the dreams of rape became reality. Even _that_ had to be worse than he could have imagined it. Lucius never actually penetrated him with a real _cock_. Oh no. Malfoys didn't lie with dogs, after all. He had split him open with some kind of thick rusted metal rod. Harry had needed another blood replenishing potion after that.

He hadn't bathed since he'd first woken in this room, and in nearly two months of being here, he hadn't even thought to feel filthy until that rod was shoved into him. As if that wasn't enough the first time, it became a regular end to their torture sessions – which were now daily. If Harry didn't fuck himself on the rod properly, he got crucio'd.

On the first night of the third month, Harry dreamt that he had a tail. He was sitting at Voldemort's feet, wagging his tail, with his tongue flopped out of his mouth happily.

The next night he took the dreamless sleep potion.

When Lucius walked into the room the morning after that to see the vial that usually sat resolute on the windowsill empty, he cackled happily, and then smashed the glass on Harry's ribs, letting the shards dig cruelly into his skin.

Before he left, Lucius made him crawl across the room on all fours. Every time Harry adjusted his body to sit up in a more traditionally _human_ fashion, he got shot a curse that felt like his spine was crushing him back into his place.

A few weeks later, Lucius came in with a house-elf beside him. Harry was curled up on the ground, where he knew he belonged. This was his life. The boy known as Harry Potter might have lasted longer under this daily agony, but what ties did he hold to that boy any longer? The war was over. The light had lost. At least as Voldemort's dog his life was spared. The Slytherin side of him could not help but see the benefit of that.

The house-elf was frowning at him like he was going to trek mud through the house, and Harry almost snorted at how appropriate the look was. He truly was a dog. After four months of having that idea beaten into him, he would secretly agree that he had begun to believe it. It was either give up all hope in the human race, or admit that perhaps he was not a part of it.

"Today is your birthday." Lucius announced, "I know that as a Dog, this is a difficult concept for you to understand, but the Dark Lord has decided to give you a gift."

Lucius snapped his fingers at the elf, and the elf presented Harry with a dog bowl. Inside of it, was what appeared to be a single scrambled egg.

Having not eaten real food in longer than he could even recall, and also running short on the nutrient potion already this week, Harry did not hesitate to dive forward headfirst.

"No!" Lucius shouted, sternly, and Harry stopped – nose only an inch away from the egg, and sat back on his haunches obediently.

"A well trained dog is not allowed to eat until he is told. Is that _elf_ your master, Dog?" Lucius sneered out.

"No, Sir." Harry answered, still staring at the egg longingly.

"Look at you, nearly drooling at the thought of human food. Go ahead and eat your egg, you filthy little bitch."

Harry again shoved his face into the bowl, eating greedily and not considering for a moment that if he had preferred, he could have used his hands. He knew his place now and found that acceptance was rather easier than fighting.

He managed to keep the egg down for almost an entire three minutes before his stomach rejected the foreign concept of solid food and he vomited violently, managing to at least land the puke back into the dog bowl, and not on his carpet, where he'd be smelling it for the foreseeable future.

Lucius laughed, and tossed him a fresh nutrient potion.

"As _my_ gift to you, you do not have to attempt to re-ingest that." Lucius said, banishing the bowl of vomit. "Next time be more grateful to your Lord and accept his gifts properly!" Lucius reprimanded, sending a slashing curse at Harry's neck and a healing spell directly after it.

Harry worried for a single moment that he would die of decapitation, and gurgled frantically as the blood poured out, but even as the cut was made it was healing. It certainly wasn't the closest Lucius had gotten him to death so far, and he was sure that the man would get him closer still.

"Did that _hurt,_ Dog?" Lucius asked curiously.

"Y-yes, Sir!" Harry answered dutifully, although his eyes were downcast. Lucius narrowed his own eyes in response.

"But?" He asked, staring hard.

"But I am sure, it was n-nothing, Sir. Nothing compared to The Dark Lord."

Lucius grinned elatedly, "Well look at that, Dog. You're finally starting to get it."

 **A/N: I know this chapter is pretty long compared to the first, but there was just no good place to split it .**

 **Again, a big thank you to everyone who favorited, subscribed, and reviewed! Big thanks to anyone who will do any of the three after reading this chap!**

 **All my love,**

 **-Beloved**


	3. True to the Mark

**A/N: Happy Thursday everyone! Here's another update!**

 **Please keep in mind that this story is completely FINISHED at this point, meaning that any suggestions for what should happen next can't really be adhered to, as what has happened next has already** _ **happened**_ **from my point of view.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Chapter Three: True to the Mark – House Sarsfield**

* * *

The second thing they took from him was his mind.

Eight months after his birthday, Harry was rather well adjusted to the idea of belonging to Voldemort, and temporarily by extension, Lucius Malfoy. He was a faithful dog, and loyal. He was always on his best behavior, and understood that Lucius' constant beatings and curses were a _blessing_. They were a gift to him from his temporary Master, to help toughen up his skin. To make sure he was ready for whatever sadistic desires his Lord might have.

Lucius had been teaching him so much lately. Like how to please his Lord in … _other_ , ways. The phantoms that Harry was made to practice with were far from what it would be like with a real man, and Harry knew that, but he had to learn somehow. He was taught how to please a man with his mouth, or his hands, or even the most personal way of all. As a reward for doing it correctly, Lucius let him have an entire week off without putting that rusted rod into him.

And today was going to be especially exciting. The Dark Lord wanted to see for himself how his dog was progressing, and Lucius felt that Harry could benefit from some public humiliation, so he was to attend tonight's death eater meeting.

Harry wondered why it was that they still _had_ death eater meetings with it being almost a year since the dark won the war, but he knew that his Lord must have had a reason for it. Harry had to believe that his Lord had a reason for _everything_. It was all that he _could_ believe in anymore. He had given up all illusions that his life was anything other than what it was – a long hopeless existence as a death eater hound, that he might as well make the best of.

A house elf popped into the room. It was the second time he'd seen one since being here and the first that he'd seen one without Lucius.

"Master is saying for doggy to be clean for Voldy-Lord!"

Harry blinked in surprise as suddenly some sort of invisible force began to tingle and scrub all over his skin. He was overwhelmed by the scent of … fruit? Some kind of soap? It was foreign on his nose and burned as he breathed it in. His skin felt too naked – too sensitive.

Lucius came in a moment later, dressed in all black robes. He held in one hand two death eater masks, and in the other hand his usual cane (Harry was surprised the thing wasn't bent or broken from the amount of times it had come down on his back) and a silver harness and chain, presumably for the dog that was now looking patiently up at him.

"Your skin is red and raw from a simple cleaning charm, dog. Do you know how caked in _filth_ you must have been for a mundane little spell like that to make such an affect?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"No need to apologize, dog. After all, it would be unusual to bathe you as regularly as one would a _person_ , don't you think?"

"Of course!" Harry quickly agreed, bowing his head as Lucius bent over and put the harness onto him. It had a strap that went over his stomach, and two that went over his shoulders. The three straps met at the center, on a large silver hoop, and the chain buckled into that part of it. Lucius then put the death eater mask over Harry's face, before securing his own. It was severely irritating his oversensitive skin, but he tried not to show the discomfort. Lucius opened the door and Harry hesitated momentarily, not ever having seen what was beyond this door before. He could see now that it was a simple hallway, but what if this was a trick? He wasn't really allowed to see the Dark Lord today, was he? He would be punished as soon as he crossed the threshold, surely. He was not to leave this room. He knew that. He'd even been a good dog when Lucius had tested him by removing the locking charm for three hours.

Impatiently, Lucius yanked him forward into the hall, and Harry gasped, hardly able to stand the air that wasn't pungent from lack of circulation, blood stained carpet, and his own filth. He felt his eyes start to water and blinked back tears, coughing violently. The mask provided some protection from inhaling the pure air, but not enough and he staggered to remain stable as he crawled along behind Lucius down the hall.

When they reached a large marble staircase, he froze, entire body shaking with fear. Would he be made to crawl down the stairs? Crawling up was one thing – but with so many new sensations, and only the small slits to see from with the mask on… surely he would fall to his death. He was mentally picturing himself, skull cracked against the dainty marble, blood dripping down each step slowly tainting the swirly white beauty of them. He refused to budge forward, whimpering when Lucius pulled on him.

Lucius sighed, and turned to sneer down at Harry. "If it is easier for you, Dog, you may use your hind legs for the stairway."

This idea only horrified Harry more. He wouldn't dare. Slowly, carefully, he crawled down on all fours, tripping a little bit near the end and hitting his knees hard against the marble, but barely noticing the pain even as Lucius looked down at the purple mark forming.

"You did very well, Dog. Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Lucius could see the familiar tension in Harry's shoulders that meant the mutt wanted to say something but knew better than to speak without having been spoken to.

"Would you tell him, sir? Would you tell my Lord – or show him in a pensieve? How I came to him properly? Even down the steps? I know he will not reward me… but still. Could you?"

Lucius allowed himself to smile softly. He had done excellently with Potter. Excellently. He couldn't have asked for a better way to redeem himself after the Ministry.

"If you behave well during the meeting I will tell The Dark Lord afterwards."

"Thank you!" Harry elated, and Lucius just knew that the mongrel was beaming up at him from beneath the mask.

Lucius nodded, and opened the door for them to go into the meeting room. It was a few chairs in a semi-circle in front of a large throne, and behind the chairs, many were already gathered. Bellatrix Lestrange, her husband, and his brother, were already seated in the chairs, and Harry deduced that the right to sit was reserved for the most loyal, and lesser death eaters would have to stand. He was conflicted. He belonged sitting at his Masters feet – but he did not deserve to sit! Furthermore, which Master was it that he should adorn? He didn't want to force himself on his Lord if the man did not yet want him…

The Dark Lord was hadn't come in yet, so when Lucius took a seat, Harry stayed on all fours, looking up at him.

"Sit, dog." Lucius commanded, and Bellatrix gave a deranged smile when The Boy Who Lived did exactly that, looking up at Lucius for another command in case one came. She cackled loudly and Lucius smiled at her. She was probably one of the few who realized who this naked masked boy _was_ , and he was glad she got so much amusement from it.

A few minutes later the room was full, and The Dark Lord walked in through a separate door. Harry felt like he was seeing him for the first time. He feared him now more than ever, but it was different. He feared more what came _with_ the man than the man himself. The man he was... oddly drawn to. He knew that Lucius had placed him under a strong compulsion charm to desire pleasuring the Dark Lord. He also knew, that as a cruel punishment, Lucius had _removed_ that compulsion charm, to prove to him that after so long of being forced to feel something, a bit of the feelings … lingered, even if they weren't true to begin with.

He knew that he had once been Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. He knew that once it had been his destiny to kill this man, and just as surely as he knew that, he knew that it was over. Knew that now it was his destiny to serve and obey him. He wanted to go to him. To kiss his feet. To adore him. To shower him in affection. It was a different feeling than with Lucius. He knew that The Dark Lord would be ten times as cruel as _any_ of his death eaters, but Harry had long since accepted that. He didn't care. He had been put through hell for a year – a _year_ just so he could be perfect for this man, and he would be damned if a year of training went to nothing.

Harry sat quietly through the majority of the meeting as death eaters reported on rebel movements and muggle politics, which for some reason seemed to interest the Dark Lord, especially when it came to childcare. Harry paid attention because his Lord was paying attention. Anything important to his Lord should be important to him, even if he didn't always understand it.

He was no longer looking at Lucius. Instead, he was staring at The Dark Lord's feet, and trying to resist approaching him. He was meant to serve him. _Trained_ to serve him. Forced to live in _agony_ so that he could serve him.

Harry was fidgeting and wriggling in his spot on the floor, and compared to the completely still members of the inner circle, he was making quite the ridiculous image of himself, but he couldn't help it. Even if Lucius beat him for it later, he couldn't sit still while his Lord was _right there_ and not _go to him_ without a certain degree of physical restraint.

Lucius was furious that his dog would embarrass him by making such a spectacle, and slipped his wand out of his cane subtly, ready to fire a silent curse at the hound for his poor behavior.

"Lucius," Voldemort drawled, even though he was not facing the man and could not have logically seen him draw his wand, "There is not a single being in this room who I am not capable of punishing _myself_ if they have displeased me."

"Of course, My Lord. He is yours. It was out of habit, I'm sorry."

"I will not hold it against you, my friend." Voldemort said calmly, and Harry could feel what must have been a mountain of tension leaving Lucius' body. It didn't help to diffuse any of his, having the Dark Lord _looking_ towards them. He whimpered. The sound must have echoed, as the room was so silent. Every eye turned towards Harry. The disrespectful pet that would dare be such a nuisance in the presence of _The_ Dark Lord. Harry wanted to disappear into the ground. He felt a full-body blush coming and almost cried. He was shaming himself in front of all of them and there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

Voldemort looked at Harry then, and although Harry's eyes were somewhat shielded from the mask, he did not hesitate to let them bore into his Lords, freely giving away the thoughts and memories that he could feel the man digging up. He was trying to find something, it seemed.

' _Show me the reason for your distress, child.'_

Harry nearly jumped, hearing the man's voice whispering into his head. He threw it all at him, the agony, the time, the learning, all it had taken him to be _worthy_ to be _his_ , and even still, he could not freely go to him.

If it was silent when Harry had whimpered, that was nothing compared to the silence when the Dark Lord began to laugh. It was soft, and slightly manic, but in the completely hushed room, they all heard it.

"Do you know what causes him to fidget so, Lucius?" Voldemort asked, red eyes staring tauntingly and gladly at the Malfoy.

"No, My Lord," Lucius admitted. He knew that The Dark Lord had just looked into the dog's mind.

"He is burning up inside with the nearly incontrollable desire to _kiss my feet_."

Lucius' eyes widened, as well as those of both Lestrange brothers. They knew who this child was – they also knew that their Lord would not lie about such a thing for sport.

The Dark Lord leaned back in his chair, lifting his robe very slightly, exposing his bare feet to the room. They all observed as the naked and masked boy jerked forcibly before settling down. Bellatrix howled, and The Dark Lord shook his head fondly.

"Bring him to me, Lucius."

Harry was starting to worry that he was distracting the Dark Lord from handling important business… surely they had called this meeting to handle serious matters… he didn't want to be an obstacle or a distraction if they had real issues to discuss. When he heard his Lord laughing softly again, he realized that the man had never completely extracted himself from Harry's mind.

Lucius stood and Harry eagerly crawled behind him up to his Lords throne, where his chain was handed over to his Lord.

"I can take it from here, Lucius. Be seated."

Harry's heart was pumping a mile a minute he was so excited. _His Lord_ was holding his chain, and he was now only two feet away from the man. He eyed those pale white toes with what he hoped was subtlety, but he was clearly wrong.

"Go right ahead, if it truly pleases you to do so." Voldemort allowed, and half of the room gasped as the boy lifted off his mask, revealing himself to be the thought-deceased Harry Potter, and then proceeded to bend down and place a long and gentle kiss on Voldemort's right foot. He kissed the top, and then the ankle, then the toes, individually, and then offered the same to the other foot. When he was finished, he rested his forehead against The Dark Lord's knee and closed his eyes, sighing in honest relief when he felt a thin hand stroking through his hair. "I am very proud of your progress, _Zagar_." Harry positively delighted in his Lord's attention, beaming up at him.

"You will take my mark." He announced.

"Oh, Yes." Harry agreed, offering his left forearm freely, causing another gasp throughout the room – even from Lucius, who was not aware that he had done _that_ well with the boy.

"Would you mark a dog the same place you mark a man?" Voldemort asked amusedly, and Harry snatched his arm back, rambling in embarrassment for making assumptions. Voldemort stood up, and placed his foot on Harry's back, buckling the boy down onto the ground, and then pulled out his wand.

Harry screamed. It hurt. It hurt worse than anything he had ever felt and _by the gods_ that was saying something. The rest of them watched on, entranced. Harry's mark was the same symbol as the others, but instead of curling down the central vein in the wrist of the left arm, it went down his entire _spine_. Lucius could not even begin to imagine how the mutt kept from passing out, but it had to be sheer determination as nothing else was strong enough.

"Now you carry me with you on your back everywhere that you go," Voldemort announced, several minutes later to a whimpering and crying Harry, "You are obedient, yes. Loyal to a fault, and broken completely. But you are weak. You are unworthy to serve. Back to Lucius you go, and not to sit like a spoilt little princess in a room all day. You heard the meeting tonight. The rebels are moving against us still. How can you serve your lord from this manor when the danger is outside?"

Harry was dumbfounded. Voldemort wanted him to _fight_? To _kill_ even? It was too much. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

He crumbled to the ground, not as Voldemort's dog, but as Harry James Potter, beaten, broken, confused, and at a loss for how to move forward. He shouted and thrashed and still did not understand how _everyone_ was dead and still there were rebels. Everyone he loved was _gone._ Everyone. _Everyone._ He saw it _every night_. How foolish he had been to waste that single vial of dreamless sleep after only a couple short months!

They all died brutally and here he was, at The Dark Lord's feet. No, _his_ Lord's feet. He wouldn't deny what he had become. He belonged here now, just as much as they belonged in their graves – meaning not at _all_ but irreversibly so. He was going to live for them. Going to thrive. Going to make the most of this twisted and horrible life. But apparently not from a cage. Apparently being beaten and tortured and raped – body and mind, was not _enough_ to serve his Lord!

"There is a small surviving piece of defiance in you, _Zagar_ ," Voldemort mused, staring at the boy's crumpled form.

"I am sorry, My Lord."

Surprisingly, the apology was not from Lucius, but from Harry himself.

"Don't be," Voldemort murmured, so that only he and his dog could hear, "I find it to be very…" He stopped, having apparently decided not to try to put it to words, "Try to hold on to that last bit of yourself, Harry Potter – or you might prove to be a worthless hound after all."

Lucius wished he knew what it was that The Dark Lord had said to have the dog looking so completely petrified and awe-stricken.

Harry had not been called by his name in a year.

 **A/N: As usual, big thanks to those who have review, subscribe, and favorite!**

 **See you next week!**

 **Love ya!**

 **-Beloved**


	4. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken

**A/N: Sorry this wasn't up this morning, I was running late for work.**

 **Here's another chapter!**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Chapter Four: Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken – House Martell**

After the meeting with Voldemort, Harry was escorted by the elf upstairs to his room while Lucius spoke with The Dark Lord. He spent the time thinking, and sleeping a little. Seeing Voldemort had … awoken something in him. Something that he truly would have preferred dormant.

He didn't know how long he could take this.

There was a piece of him – though he tried to ignore it – that was still telling him all of this was complete and utter bullshit. It didn't make sense for him to belong to another person. And yet the bigger part of him knew that he _did_. There was no questioning that. He was, indeed, simply an object existing because Voldemort commanded it. At the same time, he was himself, and resistant to this.

He wished there was no resistance. Wished that Lucius had trained him as thoroughly as he'd meant to, and that he didn't have to question the morality of his actions as he meekly followed every command.

He was desperate to see his Lord again already, and they'd only been apart for a few hours. He wanted to scream at the man for giving him such a confusing and horrible life, and at the same wanted to get down on his knees and _thank_ him. Now there was an odd thought. What did Harry have that he could possibly be thankful for?

His life, he supposed. As rotten as it was, he was alive. Although it didn't do him much good since he knew that it might not be for much longer. Surely, he would be handed over to his Lord soon, and everything would be even worse than it was with Lucius. Still, he would rather that. Rather _know_ that he was suffering as much as he possibly could. He hated the waiting. Hated wondering how it was possible that there could be more humility and pain than _this_.

Lucius came into the room like a roar of thunder, wand brandished angrily and several curses ready at his lips.

"HOW DARE YOU EMBARRASS ME LIKE THAT!" He shouted angrily, and Harry screamed as he felt his bones burning right down to the marrow.

If there was one thing that Lucius Malfoy excelled at – it was dark curses. That and politics, though Harry didn't have much knowledge of the latter first hand.

He zoned out into his own private world as Lucius used his body like a training dummy, slicing and burning and blasting through his skin and bones with seemingly little regard for whether or not his wayward captive would survive the tortuous spells.

Just yesterday Harry had been so sure that he was nothing but a nameless worthless dog that was meant to do nothing but please his Lord. But how? How could that be? How could a force of nature as magnificent and terrible as Lord Voldemort exist without a Harry Potter to balance it? What was one without the other? If his Lord was the same Voldemort, then he must have been the same Harry… but if he was the same Harry, why did the idea of talking back to Lucius cause a physical ache in his jaw?

"Have you _nothing_ to say for yourself, _Dog_?" Lucius snarled, panting heavily as he stood intimidatingly over the pile of blood skin and bones that was once a boy hero.

"It will not happen again, Sir." Harry assured the man weakly. He hoped that he would be offered a blood replenishment. He could almost feel the life being drained from him while he continued to bleed onto the carpet. He could no longer remember what color this room had been before he and Lucius had painted it red together.

"Of course it won't!" Lucius barked, "At least not any time soon. The Dark Lord has told me to bring you back for reassessment in _two years_ , dog! Two more _years_ of your filth in my home! I detest you for it!"

Harry's eyes widened and his tongue darted out to lick his lips, tasting blood there but much too used to it by now to be fazed by the coppery liquid. "Two years?" He croaked out, staring up at Lucius.

He could feel his hatred for the man surging. Feel all of the repressed anger that he'd kept so well hidden coming up to the surface. _Two more years_! It had only been one year so far and his progress was astounding! The Dark Lord had said so himself! And now he had to do two more fucking years!

"NO!" Harry shouted, fury rising to dangerous levels at this point, he sat up without a struggle, and Lucius took a step back, knowing that the child shouldn't have even been able to lift his head with all the curses he'd just been subjected to. "I DON'T CARE WHAT HE DOES OR WHAT HE SAYS I REFUSE TO SPEND TWO MORE YEARS OF MY LIFE IN THIS HELL!"

Lucius flinched as Harry's magic stirred precariously, dancing over his skin in a severely menacing caress. The energy emitting from the teen was near tangible, and he pointed his wand, curse ready at his lips, prepared to punish his foolish and rowdy dog.

" _Crucio!"_

"NO MORE!" Harry shrieked, and Lucius watched in horror as the cruciatus curse collided with some sort of magical wall that seemed to have sprung up between them. Harry stood up, chest heaving quickly. There was an insane panic in his eyes, even as he held his ground against his Master, and Lucius smirked.

"Be as high and mighty as you want, _Dog._ But know this – you are _too late._ My work here is done. You know what you are and who you serve. Even now you are thinking not of your actions, but of the consequences that will succeed them."

He was right. They both knew it. Harry was too late. This was all too late. His mind had already been taken from him. There was the side of him now, yes, that hated everything about this life, but there was also the side that had grown accustomed to it, and they were not split evenly down the middle. No, the bigger part of Harry was The Dark Lord's Dog.

But that was just the thing wasn't it? He was the Dark Lord's Dog. He belonged to Voldemort and Voldemort alone.

"I am not yours to punish, Lucius Malfoy." Harry stated, calmly. "I never was, and I never will be. If some life-altering fate awaits me for my actions today, it will not be _you_ who delivers that blow."

With that, Harry walked out of the room. He knew that some line had been crossed, but he did not care. He would not serve the Dark Lord through Lucius Malfoy. He could not deny that his training had been … successful, in the end. He would not pretend that his life did not belong to Voldemort. He knew it did. As Lucius had threatened, submission had been beaten into his flesh until his blood _pumped_ it. He needed a Master as much as he needed nutrition or sleep.

But that Master was not Lucius Malfoy. It never had been and it never could be. He saw that now. Saw that facing two more years with that man was impossible after having met his Lord today. Voldemort was the most powerful person he'd laid eyes on, and he was tired of waiting.

The hallways of Malfoy Manor seemed deserted. Harry was checking each door to each room, and he quickly deduced that he had been kept in some sort of storage unit of the house. On the third room, he was overwhelmed with the stench of blood – rather similar to that of his own chambers – and he looked around, expecting to find another prisoner.

Instead he found robes. Dozens of them, and all caked in blood. He pictured himself then as a house elf, unable to clean something and deciding to hide it away instead. These were the robes that Lucius tortured him in. This was the day in day out record of his misery, draped across tattered chairs or thrown onto the floor. Day after day of anguish and hurt, piled up in a mess of black. He put one on, almost tripping as he walked. He was so unused to clothes now, but knew that anyone he stumbled across would be appalled by his nudity.

The fabric stuck to the still open welts on his chest and back, and although Harry could feel his magic – still stirring angrily around him – trying to heal the damage, it just wasn't quite working. He managed to stumble down the steps, but by the time he reached the bottom he was so dizzy that he thought it might have been easier that morning when he'd done it on all fours.

There was a ringing in his head that got louder and louder, and he felt his scar start to burn – a sensation that was foreign at this point. Still he soldiered on back into the meeting room.

The ringing intensified, and he opened the doors, seeing Severus Snape kneeling at his Lord's feet. It was coming _from_ Snape, he realized, stepping farther into the room. His Lord wasn't looking at him, but Snape was, his eyes so thoroughly surprised that Harry almost laughed.

He stumbled forward towards his former professor, and the ringing got so horridly loud that in a sudden and crucial moment, Harry realized two things. Firstly – this was far from the first time his head had been ringing like this, and Secondly – any moment now, he was going to pass out.

He looked frantically at his Lord, who was gazing blankly back at him, as if not at all surprised to see him here, and felt his anxiety rise.

"Traitor," He accused, looking at Snape and then back up at his Lord, " _Traitor!_ " He repeated, more urgently.

"Potter, while I am astonishingly startled to find you _alive_ , I must admit I thought we had moved _past_ your anger over Dumbledore's unfortunate demise at this point," Snape leered, as if taunting Harry for having murdered the headmaster in front of him.

Harry took several steps forward and the world around him began to spin. He stood between Snape and the throne, panting heavily and Snape's eyes widened, seeing the trail of blood on the floor that Harry was leaving behind. He coughed, and more blood dripped down his chin.

"My Lord?" Harry asked, looking back frantically at his Lord and imploring the man to see what it was that he was trying to say.

"Yes. I understood the first time, Zagar."

With a sigh, Harry collapsed.

 **XxBxExLxOxVxExDxX**

There was something very plush trying to swallow him alive.

"How did you know?"

Harry jolted, his entire body flinching and his eyes darting open. As soon as he opened them, he found himself face to face with … a pillow? He sat up quickly, and this time found himself face to face with his Lord, who was sitting, looking at him, from the foot of the bed that he had been sleeping in. Harry hadn't slept in an actual bed for much longer than he cared to recall, and wished that he had fully been able to appreciate the experience.

"I asked you a question," Voldemort reminded, sternly.

"Yes, My Lord," Harry answered, "How did I know what?"

Voldemort laid back, staring up at the ceiling above them and let out a heavy breath. Harry had not ever seen the man so at ease, and the image was completely fascinating, although also daunting in what it meant: The Dark Lord trusted him. This was an important thing to Harry, because he realized, as soon as this became apparent, that the Dark Lord had no reason _not_ to trust him. He was loyal, he was devout, and he was completely incapable of putting up a fight anyway.

"Each night, for the past year, I have distracted you with nightmares while I scour your mind," Voldemort explained, "I know every single thing that you think you know – and I know things about you that you yourself have not yet realized. I know your position on the war, and I know who you consider to be on what side," He paused, turning his head and looking at Harry. It was an odd angle, with him sitting up and his Lord laying down. He felt like he was disrespecting the man by having his head higher, but wasn't comfortable laying back down himself on this foreign bed.

"Each night, for the past year, you have been certain that Severus Snape was loyal to me, right up until last night, when he made his final move to see me dead. So it is now that I must ask you, Harry. How is it that you knew the man had captured my familiar?"

Harry bit his lip, uncomfortable with hearing his name yet _again_ falling from his Lord's lips. "She is a horcrux, My Lord," He explained, wincing and waiting for the cruciatus that he was sure was coming for mentioning his Lord's soul shards. When none came, he peeked one eye open, and saw Voldemort patiently waiting for him to continue, so he did. "I can feel them when they are near me."

Voldemort closed his eyes and sighed loudly, and Harry almost fled right then at how completely open the man was being with him.

"Snape was Dumbledore's all along," The red eyed man explained, much to Harry's shock. Sure, he could accept that Snape had betrayed Voldemort after the dark had won the war – after all, why not betray one master if you'd betray the other? But to suggest that Snape had _always_ been loyal to Dumbledore? He'd _killed_ Dumbledore!

"It's a complex idea to wrap one's head around, but I got quite a bit out of Severus last night, and I assure you – he was Dumbledore's through and through."

Harry did not know how to feel when he noticed that all mentions of Snape were in the past tense.

"When news hit the public of your death, and the deaths of Weasley and Granger, Snape saw himself as solely responsible for my destruction, since without you three it left him the only person aware of the existence of my Horcruxes."

" _What_?" Harry blurted out, biting down on his tongue hard when he realized his outburst. Why had _Snape_ known? This was all too much to handle, and now he was being insolent to his Lord, "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

Voldemort was laughing, in that soft way, like he had after reading Harry's mind at the meeting. Harry was immediately enchanted by the sound, but vowed not to attempt to pointlessly humor his lord, lest he offended him somehow.

"I truly do think that your obedience could still be much better developed under Lucius' firm hand," Voldemort mused, and Harry blanched, pleading with his eyes as he gazed down at the still relaxed form of his Lord.

"But I am a merciful Lord, even if unforgiving," He continued, and Harry held his breath, not letting himself believe it was true, "You will remain here, now. With me. I am a very busy man, and I do not have the time and energy to fight you at every turn as Lucius does. If you displease me I assure you, the consequences will be quite unlike anything you have ever imagined."

Harry nodded eagerly, fully prepared to take on whatever twisted punishments his Lord came up with. Anything was better than Lucius. _Anything_. And he knew that the man had always said the Dark Lord would be exponentially _worse_ – but at least Harry would know what it was all _for_ here. He wasn't meant to serve a false Master who he held no true allegiance to.

Voldemort rose and began walking out of the room, turning back just before he reached the door.

"Oh, and Harry?"

Harry looked up at his eyes.

"If you _bore_ me, I'll give you to Lucius permanently."

Harry nodded, warily – truly frightened of this possibility. Suddenly exhausted, he decided to make good use of this bed, and went back to sleep for a few hours ,truly astonished when he was not haunted by any tragic dreams. It was the best he had slept for a very long time, and he was reluctant to wake later in the afternoon, but it seemed it was not quite tired enough to sleep away the entire day.

When he did reluctantly rise, he was overwhelmed by confusion. Everything was changing too quickly again, and his head was reeling with all that had come to pass just in the last forty-eight hours. He was Voldemort's now. Truly. Here he was with the man in…? Actually, Harry had no idea where they were, only that it wasn't Malfoy manor.

He expected that soon enough Voldemort would be back to punish him for his laziness, so he wouldn't worry about it for now. He was rather hungry though, and looked at the end table beside him and dresser across the room, hoping to find his usual nutrient potion.

After nearly ten minutes of vigorously searching the room for it, Harry gave up. What a shame. He had three days left of the potion back at Malfoy Manor, but clearly his Lord did not deem him worthy of nutrition after the spectacle he'd made of himself yesterday and earlier this morning.

He should have expected this. Lucius had always said it would be worse. At Malfoy Manor, he got one potion to last him sometimes for three or four weeks. Here, apparently he got nothing at all. His stomach loudly growled its protest, and Harry frowned, walking back over to the bed to see if he could try to sleep off the hunger.

Just when he was resignedly pulling back the covers, he heard the small pop of an elf entering.

"Bad Doggie is being late for dinner! Bad Doggie must be getting dressed _now_!"

Harry stared down at the elf in wonder, knowing that he _must_ have misheard something. "I'm sorry, _what_?"

The elf grabbed his hand and yanked him over to a door that he hadn't thought to notice before. It led to a bathroom with a rather large tub and separate shower. With a snap of the elf's fingers, the tub was full of steaming water. When Harry looked down at his own nudity he had only a second to realize what was about to happen before it _did_ and he was pushed hardly into the water by the elf, who was bustling about the room looking rather unapologetic.

"Doggy _must_ be hurrying with his bath while Tossy is bringing his clothes!" The elf insisted, shoving a sponge in Harry's direction and scrambling back into the other room. Harry tried as best as he could, but it was a bit optimistic for him to expect his first bath in over a year to be a fast one. The sponge felt awkward in his hands and even more foreign on his skin.

His skin.

Harry looked down at his chest, really _seeing_ it for the first time that day and let out a shriek of surprise, leaping out of the tub and staring at the mirror. He hadn't been allowed to see himself in the mirror for the last year unless it was to humiliate him – and the humiliation was usually easy, upon gazing at his own reflection. Scars, welts, and burns – on every inch of his skin. 'DOG' carved into his forehead. Lips crusted over from all the times they'd been burst and sliced and left chapped.

And it was gone. All of it was gone. All of it except-

Harry was drawn suddenly out of his own mind by the warm feeling of a drying charm brushing over his skin. Tossy handed him a pile of black that he assumed was supposed to be his outfit, and he thanked the elf, getting a disapproving glare and a pair of boxers thrown haphazardly at his face.

He quickly dressed and allowed an overly antsy Tossy side-along apparate him downstairs. He supposed that his Lord did not want him knowing the way. The elf silently pointed to two double doors and then disappeared as suddenly as she'd come, leaving Harry standing anxiously outside, one hand stretched towards the gorgeous mahogany of the doors. His legs were wobbling, not used to so much standing, and he took a deep breath, and then opened the doors and stepped inside.

It was not the dining hall he was expecting. In fact, it was not a dining hall at all. It was a floo room. Harry knew that older wizarding houses had them. His Lord was standing beside the fireplace, also dressed casually, and nodded in greeting when Harry entered.

"You're very late, Zagar," Voldemort commented, beckoning his dog closer with his hand.

"I'm sorry, My Lord. I've been sleeping all day, I didn't know you wanted me to-"

"Hush now, child." Voldemort instructed, taking Harry's hand in his own left and a bit of floo powder with his right. He pulled both of them into the hearth and then threw down the floo powder, frightening Harry to the bone with his next two words.

"Malfoy Manor!"

 **A/N: Lots happening in this chappie, eh? I'm sure it's moving fast for you guys, but try to keep in mind that I originally wrote this story as a one-shot so I didn't take as much care as I usually do with pacing out the chapters :/**

 **I really appreciate everyone who favorites and subscribes, and thanks SO much to those who take a second to review!**

 **Love you all lots and lots!**

 **-Beloved**


	5. Death Before Disgrace

**Thank you all SO much for your feedback on the last chapter!**

 **Here's the next one!**

* * *

 **Chapter Five: Death Before Disgrace – House Bulwer**

When they arrived at Malfoy Manor, Harry was shaking to the bone. He clutched desperately to his Lord's arm, not caring if it was disrespectful, as he could not bear to be parted with the man so soon. What had he done? What had he possibly done to have him sentenced to a life with Lucius after only half of a _day_ with Voldemort? He could feel his throat tightening and his eyes began to burn with the onset of tears as his Lord looked down at his distressed expression.

"Easy, Harry," Voldemort looked him in the eyes, "I am not bored of you." He explained, and Harry tried to calm down, but it was difficult. The last time he had stood in this living room …

He flinched, remembering Hermione's screams. The way she had _begged_ and _pleaded_ with him not to cast a simple dark curse. What would she say now? As he stood mere paces away from where she died, clutched tightly to the side of Voldemort himself, and feeling _safer_ for it.

"If the environment upsets you, you are free to go," Voldemort allowed, "Severus' death marked the end of the light's rebellion, at least as far as the Order is concerned; and Narcissa has organized a celebratory get together. I thought you may want to attend. After all, it was you that alerted me to Severus' treachery to begin with."

Thought he might want to attend? _Want_? Since when did anything Harry _wanted_ matter to _anyone_ and why did the idea make him feel lightheaded in a thoroughly unpleasant way?

"You are too kind, My Lord."

Harry meant it. His Lord was _too_ kind. He didn't understand it and he didn't like it. It was too much to handle all at once. He had known when he'd fled Lucius' torture the day before that he was jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, but he had not expected such subtle burns as these. What was going on? Why was he being treated this way? Was Voldemort so cruel that he would paint the world in a beautiful illusion before snatching it away?

Clearly he was. Harry would not allow himself to be fooled. If there was one thing Lucius had taught him it was to expect cruelty at every turn, at any moment. It would be easy for Harry to not let himself fall into his comfort zone because he did not _have_ a comfort zone. He refused to allow his Lord to give him one just to yank it back and laugh later on.

Seemingly ignoring him, Voldemort walked out of the living room, and through to the room where the Death Eater meetings were usually held. Harry wondered curiously if Death Eater meetings would still be an occurrence now that the Order had been defeated. He expected so. If there was one thing that Voldemort was consistent about it was his paranoia. He would probably hold the meetings forever, if for nothing else than just to remind each and every one of his followers that he was just as alert and deathly as he'd always been. Oddly, this was a fond thought to Harry.

The room was done up very nicely, pale blue drapes adorning the walls, and marble floor polished to perfection. A long sweeping buffet table was set up on the far wall, full of so many varieties of food that Harry almost gagged on the spot. He thought it was cruel for nausea to be his body's reaction to extreme hunger, but he was used to it by now.

The elves were wearing pristine towels, folded like toga's around their small frames, and looking much cleaner than usual as they popped around with trays holding champagne flutes balanced carefully on their boxy heads.

A girl who must have been around Harry's age was on a dais near where they'd entered, strumming at an enormous harp. Harry wondered how her long silvery hair did not get in her way, as small wisps of it blew into her face from the open balcony doors beside her. Also on the dais, was an intricate porcelain pedestal, and on top of it, a wand, snapped cleanly in two.

 _Snape's_.

"The girl you're admiring is named Galatea. Half Veela and half Vampire. Stunning, is she not?"

Harry turned, not recognizing the voice that spoke to him. When he looked towards the man, he realized it was one of the Lestrange brothers, though he could not tell which. Where had his Lord gone?

"She plays very well," He answered, not daring to comment on her truly remarkable good looks for fear that it may inspire jealousy from his Lord.

"Smart words from a smart mutt," Lestrange responded, grinning predatorily, "How is it that you managed to wiggle your way out of Lucius' hold, hmm? Last I heard you'd been sentenced to another two _years_ with the ponce, and yet here you are – ogling his guests in his ballroom. Something tells me you aren't here at _Lucius'_ command."

Harry's eyes widened almost comically, "I'm not – I wasn't!"

"Leave the boy alone, Rodolphus," Someone drawled on Harry's other side, his head whipped to his left and saw a man looking much like the one who'd just confronted him.

Sneering with annoyance, Rodolphus turned on his heel and stalked over to his wife, who Harry could hear speaking loudly across the room to her sister about how she'd always _known_ Severus was no good.

"Rabastan Lestrange, at your service," The new face said, smiling with what Harry could only describe as deceptive amusement, "My apologies if my brother made you uncomfortable. He has a bit of a knack for disturbing others, I'm afraid. Just look at his wife! If there's one word to describe her, it's ' _disturbed_ ,' don't you think?"

Harry was much too afraid to agree, although he did spare a glance at Bellatrix, who was explaining in detail what _she_ would have done if _she_ had been the one to catch Snape in the act when he'd tried to steal Nagini.

But it hadn't been her, now had it? It had been _Harry_ who sensed Nagini's presence on Snape's body, even though he'd tried to suppress it with no small number of wards and charms. They were spelled to repel all possible ways for Voldemort or anyone else to detect that she was shrunken and frozen in his pocket. And yet Harry had sensed her before he even walked into the room.

Why _was_ that?

"You alright there, Puppy?" Rabastan asked, looking curiously at Harry's face.

"I'm sorry, I was thinking about something." Harry answered, horrified to have been ignoring one of his Lord's most favored. Where was his Lord? Harry felt as if he hadn't seen him in ages… He knew they must have only just arrived maybe an hour ago at most, but he was exhausted, ready to go home – and afraid to do so without his escort, even though he'd been given explicit permission to do exactly that.

Besides, he _couldn't_ go home. He didn't know where home _was_ , and once he got there, he didn't know where he was supposed to sleep. Certainly not in that room he'd woken in, so where?

"Hey, let's get some food into you, hmm?" Rabastan suggested, "If the rumors of what Lucius put you through are true, I'm sure you won't be able to keep much down, but there's quite a nice selection of soups at the table, so I bet we'd be able to find you something simple. How does that sound?"

"You are too kind," Harry said for the second time that day, meaning it the same way he had the first.

Why was everyone being so … normal, with him? Surely, it was at his Lord's command, but that only made this all even more confusing.

He followed Rabastan to the buffet table, eyes now searching frantically for his Lord. It was then that he noticed – Malfoy Manor, Malfoy Ballroom, Malfoy Hospitality … and no Lucius Malfoy. This could not have been a coincidence considering his Lord was absent as well. Harry hoped they weren't discussing him. What if Lucius hadn't told his Lord how it was that Harry had come to be downstairs in the first place yesterday? What if his Lord didn't want him after hearing of how he'd been so disobedient to Lucius? Then he'd have to face Lucius' wrath, and he simply could _not_ go through that again so soon after he was healed.

Healed. That brought back the shocking image that had greeted him in the mirror. His Lord had healed him. Erased every single blemish on his body that had not been there before the snatchers caught them. All except for one. Harry's eyes flickered over Rabastan's left forearm as the man spooned some shark fin soup into a mug for him. His spine still burned from the Mark, but he hardly noticed it. It was like a constant dull ache in the back of his head that he paid no mind to – he'd endured much worse.

"Here, try sipping this slowly," Rabastan suggested, handing him the mug, "And how about we step out to the balcony? That way if you think it may come back up, you can hurl _outside_."

Harry obediently took a sip of the soup, marveling at the taste, but was reluctant to follow Rabastan to the balcony.

"I really shouldn't," He insisted, "My Lord may come looking for me any moment, I don't want him to think I've run off with you."

Rabastan shook his head fondly, "The Dark Lord asked me to take care of you tonight, doggy. He's not going to come looking for you. In fact, he left only moments after he escorted you here. I have been instructed to take you home whenever you're ready to leave."

Harry was absolutely flabbergasted, and promptly dropped his mug, which cracked loudly when it hit the ground, splashing soup on his and Rabastan's robes. He began to hyperventilate, and didn't feel comforted at all by the many eyes that were now on him.

His Lord had _left him here_! The man had just _dropped him off_ at a party chock-full of Death Eaters and then _disappeared_! Harry felt like the walls were closing in on him, and all of a sudden, that balcony didn't seem like a bad idea. He rushed out past Galatea, who was still strumming at the harp, leaned over the edge of the balcony and immediately threw up, feeling as if he was expelling more than just the shark fin soup as he trembled with fear. Why would his Lord do such a thing? Was Harry not _his_ to control? Why give him so freely to the Death Eaters?

Then again, ha hadn't really _given_ his dog to his most favored. It was almost as if Harry was just another guest at the party. Almost.

"I need to go to My Lord," Harry muttered, frantically. He could feel Rabastan trying to soothe him, rubbing his back, but with each touch he only became more afraid and uncomfortable, "I need to go _now_ ! Right now!" Harry insisted, and Rabastan nodded.

"I will escort you at once, then. Can you make it to the floo? Or I can ask Lucius to take down the wards for a moment if you'd like to apparate."

"I don't want _you_ to take me!" Harry shouted, distraught. He did not know nor did he trust Rabastan Lestrange. He knew that his Lord's wishes should have been enough, but how did Harry even know that his Lord really had assigned Rabastan as his chaperone? Just because the man was being amicable didn't mean that he was any less dangerous or sly than the rest of them.

"Here, then." Rabastan offered, reaching into the pocket of his robes and pulling out something that Harry never thought he would be freely handed in his life.

"I mustn't," Harry whispered, staring open-mouthed at the object in Rabastan's hand. He did not know that his Lord trusted Rabastan so much as to have given him this, but figured that Rabastan knew to care for it with more caution than his own life.

"He gave it to me for you, in case you needed it. You are to return it to him the moment you next see him, of course."

"Of course!" Harry blurted, because there was no doubt in his mind that if he accepted this offer, he would be paying for it for years to come.

"Here," Rabastan repeated, and when Harry still did not reach out, he simply dropped the object in his hand. Instinctively, Harry's own hand darted out to catch it, and he wondered briefly how it was that his spirit could be crushed so thoroughly but his Seeker abilities seemed intact.

The moment he held the wand, he understood so many things at once that his mind felt flooded with information, although he knew it was all there prior to his epiphany.

Voldemort's wand. Thirteen and a half inches of yew, surrounding a phoenix feather core. His own wand's twin, if his own wand was out there somewhere still. It felt just as natural in his hand as his own, and it struck him, suddenly. It all just seemed to hit him.

Voldemort's wand, natural in his small and unworthy grip.

Voldemort's ease, lying in bed beside him.

Voldemort's choice, to keep him close, closer than the man had ever kept anyone else, and only a few short hours after suggesting they be apart for two years.

Voldemort's trust, gained so suddenly, after answering a single seemingly insignificant question.

' _How did you know?'_

How did he always – _always_ know when there was a horcrux nearby? Why was an insignificant dog like himself suddenly worthy of holding the Dark Lord's own wand? Why did the magic pulsing through this thin stick of yew hum so comfortably, and why did the Horcruxes, each one, every time – ring so _loud_?

And the answer was all the same. And on some level he thought he must have known – _had_ to have known before now. So much time wasted hunting for the broken pieces of his Lord's soul. How disappointed Ron and Hermione had been when they discovered how impossible a task it was that they faced. And how could they ever have completed it?

Each piece. Every single one destroyed. How could that have ended when he finally found out what he knew now?

Voldemort's wand – that he could use as easily as his own, because even then, back at Ollivanders when he was eleven years old, the horcrux was there.

Voldemort's ease – because when he was near Harry, two pieces of one soul were finally joined again.

Voldemort's choice – keeping him close not only to punish, but to _protect_. To guard the immortality that he was so obsessed over. The immortality that Harry's life ensured.

Voldemort's trust – because he had no need to worry. Harry could never successfully kill his Lord. Never. There was nothing that could destroy the horcrux within him aside from Voldemort himself. If he never killed Harry, he would live forever, and if Harry ever killed _him_ , it could very well be Harry that helped bring him back.

"Are you alright?" Rabastan asked, looking more concerned than he had all night. It was the first time Harry believed he was really worried.

"I – I don't know how to get to him with this," He explained, although it was the _least_ of his issues right now.

He was a horcrux. A fucking horcrux. Smack in the middle of his forehead. And Voldemort knew. He knew as soon as Harry ratted out Snape. That's what this whole _party_ was for. To flaunt his immortality. Harry Potter. The boy who couldn't fucking die. Harry knew that Nagini had an unnaturally long life. Would he be the same? Living forever, just because there was a piece of an immortal man inside of him?

"You just tap the wand against your mark, and try to apparate _to_ the mark, if that makes sense. Try not to think of a location, just think of going where the mark is pulling you. He'll feel the pull as well, and guide you to him." Rabastan explained.

Harry nodded, and took a deep breath. He knew it wasn't his place to be angry but he _was_. He needed to discuss this with his Lord. He tried to think of that motivation as he slipped the wand of yew behind his back and pressed it against his spine. He could feel the mark coming alive, stinging and writhing against his skin. He closed his eyes and then felt himself soaring through the entire universe in a single moment that was over almost as soon as it had begun, and then he was there.

Tall and imposing, The Dark Lord was standing in front of a fireplace, hands held out above the flame.

"Did you enjoy the party?" He asked, not looking back to see Harry's angered face.

"I'm a horcrux!" Harry shouted back, feeling a weight off of his chest from having said it aloud.

Voldemort was unconcerned. "I assure you, the Death Eaters do not discriminate against dark artifacts. That shouldn't stop you from having a good time."

"I'm a _fucking horcrux_!" Harry shouted again, "Not even just _a_ fucking horcrux, I am _your_ fucking horcrux!"

Voldemort stepped away from the fire and sat down in an extremely comfortable looking chair, "Did the big bad Death Eaters tease you about your scar and ruin the party?" He jested playfully.

"The party was fucking _fine_ okay!" Harry yelled, beginning to pace angrily, all the while muttering to himself about the horrible _mess_ that was his life.

Voldemort stared at him for a while, the slightest hint of smile creeping at the corners of his mouth, and then pulled out a book. He got through three chapters before his dog finally stopped barking, and another two before Harry came and sat at his feet.

"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled, suddenly remembering that he was holding his Lord's wand, and handing it back to him with hurried anxiety. Voldemort accepted it into his hand and pocketed it without even looking up from the page he was reading.

"I don't know what got into me… I haven't acted so out of line ever before, and I promise I'll do better, only this was such a _shock_ and at the same time it wasn't at all, and I just felt so _angry_ – but of course not angry at _you_ really, just angry at the world, and-"

"I've heard quite enough of your ramblings for the night." Voldemort interrupted.

"Of course, My Lord." Harry agreed, still horrified with how he'd behaved. Luckily, Voldemort did not seem displeased. Or bored.

"Tossy will escort you back to your rooms, and you will leave me _in peace_ until I command otherwise." As he said it, Tossy appeared with a soft pop, glaring at Harry as if she just _knew_ he was being a bad doggie again.

"Yes, My Lord."

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 **A/N: Again, my apologies to those of you who feel this is moving way too fast. It really IS meant to be a one-shot, despite the assurances you all have given me that you like it broken up. If it wasn't so damn LONG I'd have posted it as a one-shot and then the pacing would be a lot more rational xD**

 **Thanks to everyone who fave'd and subscribed, and BIG KISSES to anyone who has or will review!**

 **Love always,**

 **-Beloved**


	6. Let It Be Written

**A/N: I am so sorry that this is late! I should have given you guys a heads-up, but I moved on the 19** **th** **, and things were really hectic and my wifi didn't get installed on time and then my computer wouldn't connect to it for the first two days after it DID and just oh my gosh too much craziness but I'm finally able to update so yay!**

* * *

 **Chapter Six: Let It Be Written – House Jordayne**

It had been sixty days. Sixty days since his Lord had sent him to his room, and Harry had not seen the man since then. Sixty days of being slowly eased back into solid food and regular bathing habits by the ever insistent elf Tossy. Sixty days of sleeping in, and never once having a nightmare.

So how was it, then, that Harry was more terrified of his Lord and Lucius than he ever had been before?

He had been told, with no way to misinterpret, what he was to remain in this room until his Lord came for him. But his Lord never came. Not that night, or the next day, or the week after that, or the _month_ after that.

But that was just the issue wasn't it. His Lord had also said that if Harry began to _bore_ him, he'd be given back to Lucius forever, and Harry had no doubt that Lucius would make up for lost time.

It was exactly this sort of thinking that had Harry standing nervously in the hallway of … of whatever house this was – in front of the room he was certain his Lord was in. Now was time for the difficult question. Should he knock? Barging in seemed quite rude, but he was already going against the man just by leaving his room anyway, so perhaps it was better to take the 'all or nothing' approach.

With this reasoning in mind, Harry cracked the door open and peeked inside. If his Lord really _was_ quite busy, he supposed he'd go away and come back another time. After all, there had to be a hefty amount of work involved with ruling the Wizarding World. Did Voldemort rule the Wizarding World? Or only Wizarding Britain? Harry was ashamed to say that he truly did not know. His entire life wasted for the sake of the war, and he still wasn't entirely certain how many people he'd been fighting for.

Harry was mildly shocked to realize that apparently he was entering from some sort of private door. Perhaps the hallway his rooms were in was on a completely secret wing of the house? Either way, he was standing _behind_ his Lord's desk, and could clearly view the door that the others present in the room must have come in from.

Harry couldn't understand what the conversation was, because it was entirely in a language that he did not understand, though he could hear the familiar smooth yet somehow high voice of his Lord, speaking in a soft rolling tone.

"Kjo është Zagar im,"

Harry had heard one of those words before, and he started suddenly when all three of his Lord's guests looked over to him, as if waiting for him to do something.

"M-my Lord?" He asked nervously. He could feel waves of tension exuding from his seated master, but was unsure whether or not the foul mood was directed towards his presence or the others.

"Speak freely, Harry. Our guests cannot understand a word of what we're saying, I assure you. Was there something you needed?"

Voldemort turned in his seat, looking back so that he could make eye contact with his faithful mutt, who was looking quite ravishing today, dressed in a simple white T-Shirt and loose gray slacks, barefoot. The boy was finally filling out some again, after Lucius' treatment. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

"Erm- No, Master. I was here to ask the same of _you_ ," Harry revealed, looking back at the men seated across from the Dark Lord. "Was there anything you want from me? Anything at all?" Harry was hoping that he didn't look too anxious, but perhaps he did. He was just so … ill at ease. He didn't understand why he was here, living with this man, never seeing him.

"These men are emissary's from the Albanian Ministry," Voldemort explained, not answering Harry's question. "They are here to assassinate me," He was gazing evenly at Harry's now frozen stance, willing him to do something, it seemed.

"They're here to – to…" Harry shook his head confused, "My Lord are you _certain_ that they don't speak English?" Harry murmured in a lower volume.

Voldemort looked confused for a moment, and then highly amused. Harry wasn't sure how he could tell these things, as not much changed in the man's expression – only the slightest squinting of the eye, the most miniscule upturn of lipless mouth.

"I would wager that their English is equal to my skill in Albanian – which is to say that they are quite proficient indeed. However, perhaps you should listen more closely to the way you and I are communicating at the moment. It may surprise you."

Harry could hear it, if he concentrated. The subtle hiss under the words, the way the vowels stretched and lingered.

"Parseltongue?" He asked, startled, "We've been speaking in Parseltongue this entire time?"

"Had you not noticed?" The elder man asked it carefully, and Harry's confusion only grew.

Voldemort found the child to be quite the curious little piece of work. Harry had come back from the party speaking in Parseltongue and had not spoken in English again since then, according to his elf, Tossy. Voldemort reasoned that it was a good thing. On some sort of subconscious level, Harry must have felt some sort of safety or comfort in knowing that Voldemort was the only man alive who could understand him when he spoke.

And yet it had taken the boy two months to seek him out, and in the middle of an assassination attempt, no less. This was also curious, as Voldemort suspected that his ward was able to tell when he was in some sort of danger – not that he paid these amateurs any mind, truly.

"Am I _still_ using Parseltongue?" Harry whispered very slowly, with a look of concentration on his face and his eyes tightly shut.

"Yes," his master answered evenly. "I prefer you this way," He explained, nipping Harry's clear attempt to switch back into English in the bud. "Now, I thought I told you to remain in your rooms until I retrieved you? Did Lucius teach you nothing of obedience?"

Head down, Harry apologized profusely and scurried back to his rooms.

He remained there for another month without disruption, and in that time, became increasingly concerned with the way he had left his Lord last time. Alone in a room full of assassins – although admittedly Voldemort seemed to be paying them very little attention – what if the man had truly been killed that night? What if _that_ was why he never came?

Harry had been counting the days (He had windows here) and was fairly certain that if his Lord was okay, he would have needed him for _something_ by now. What was the point of having your own personal slave if you had zero interaction with it?

And so, again, Harry set out looking for his Master in the complex halls of this house.

He found that the hallways were significantly less complex than he thought they would be, all things considered. After all – wasn't his Lord concerned with their enemies being able to navigate his corridors?

Harry paused, his footsteps breaking in pace… Since when had Voldemort's enemies become 'their' enemies? He wasn't truly considering himself to be allied with the dark now was he?

Of course he was. There wasn't any _light_ to be allied with after all, was there? He had _been_ at the celebration to commemorate the fall of the Order. Hell – he had practically _caused_ the fall of the Order for fucks sake. After all, if he hadn't been such a loud mouth about Snape, there would still be a resistance movement against the dark.

"You just can't follow a simple instruction can you, Zagar? And here I thought Lucius had done so well. He may find himself at the end of my wand after all."

Harry jumped what must have been two feet in the air and spun around to face his Lord, eyes wide open.

"I was worried about you," Harry admitted, "The last I saw you, you were with those … well, you know. And I just thought that if you were okay you would have come to see me already… I mean, you haven't punished me even once since I've been here and I've been doing plenty that I'm sure you wouldn't approve of so I just figured that-"

"Like what?" Voldemort asked, catching Harry off guard again.

He hadn't expected that the older wizard was paying attention to his ramblings, and he had been certain that if the man responded it would be with a curse and not a question.

"Like… well…"

Harry could only think of one thing, and he didn't have the guts to say it. It was something that he'd been keeping it hidden for so long – and so thoroughly – that he wouldn't dare bring it to the forefront of his attention now. He stared hard at his feet, and tried to think of anything other than what he didn't want his Lord to know.

This was, of course, a useless endeavor. Lord Voldemort is not a man who welcomes secrets, after all.

He could feel more than hear or see that the Dark Lord was approaching him. After coming so close that they were easily only a reach of the hand away from each other, Voldemort moved closer still. He towered over Harry with such ease that he had him pinned to the wall without even having made any physical contact.

"Tell me," He murmured, "It is likely I will not be pleased if I have to force it out of you, Zagar…"

"You keep calling me that," Harry responded, rather than sharing what it was he knew his Master wanted to know, "What does it mean?"

"What are you to me, Harry?"

Harry gulped, eyes shifting from one foot to the other. He glanced at Voldemort's feet too, remembering the way he'd kissed them at the meeting – _praised_ them.

"I- I'm your dog."

"And that is what it means. Now that I have answered your question, perhaps you'll answer mine?"

His Lord was being more than fair with him. More than _more than_ fair, actually. And he knew better than to continue defying the man, but even so…

"I'm afraid you'll be upset and punish me," Harry had found with Lucius that while honesty didn't ever eliminate negative repercussion, it did make it come less painfully. Perhaps his true Master was the same way?

"Look at me," Voldemort requested, and in the moment Harry obeyed without thought, forgetting that it was something that only moments ago he'd been making a conscious effort _not_ to do. Instantly, he could feel his Lord's presence in his mind, and he gasped, green eyes glued to Voldemort's red ones.

 _Show me._

Harry could hear the command echoing in his head, and he flinched visibly at the strange feeling of someone digging through his thoughts and memories. He had felt it before, of course, at the meeting. But then, he had shown him. Willingly. He'd had no trouble revealing his strong desire to serve, but this was something else entirely.

He could see flashes of his life passing by as Voldemort flicked through, and a headache began to build. The more intensely the man searched, the more painful it became, and in only a few seconds, Harry was leaning heavily against the wall, breathing hard.

 _Show me, Harry._

It was more insistent this time, almost angry, and there was a part of Harry, a part that Lucius had planted, nurtured, and raised – that felt the urge, the _need_ to do as he was told. That small flicker of himself was all that it took, though. Voldemort zeroed in on that weakness and exploited it relentlessly, and then suddenly, it all came pouring out…

 _Harry was leaning back in his bed, eyes shut tight. All of the candles were out, and it was dark outside, the moonlight casting an interesting shadow on the carpet of his bedroom floor. He pushed down the sheets, exposing his pajama-clad legs, and revealing the prominent tent in his pants._

 _With a quick intake of breath, he palmed slowly at the bulge in the fabric, whimpering lowly to himself and then gripping more firmly, sliding the cotton over his length and giving a couple uncomfortable strokes through the thin material before losing patience and kicking his pants and undergarment off of his legs, and his eyes opened for a moment to glance down at the pink head of his cock, fisting it lazily._

 _He swiped his thumb craftily over the head and a drop of precum dribbled onto his hand, moistening it liberally as he continued to tease himself._

" _Yes, just like that… fuck…" He whispered, pumping at his manhood with more enthusiasm than he'd shown before, eyes opening again and staring down at the glistening flesh. He lifted his hand and spit onto it, then wrapped it back around himself, pushing his fingers down atop his perineum and pressing his balls up closer to his body, hissing under his breath._

" _Shit!"_

 _His chest heaved and he choked for air, huffing heavily and squeezing at his balls with one hand, biting his lip and jamming his eyes back shut._

" _Oh – OH!" He let his other hand run across his chest, toying with his nipple and releasing a murmur of pleasure at a particularly violent pinch on the small nub._

 _Suddenly, he released the pressure on his sac and firmly grasped his shaft, stroking twice, three times, and then moaning loudly as a strong spurt of semen spilled out onto his stomach._

"Masturbation?"

Harry was trying very hard to pretend that his Lord hadn't just dug up something that embarrassing, and so he resolved not to answer the question at all, and instead just looked on helplessly into Voldemort's eyes, afraid to break contact but also nervous by what he saw there – or, more what he didn't. Voldemort didn't seem to feel one way or the other about what he'd seen in Harry's memory, which was giving Harry a physical ache to his chest.

Lucius had always strongly implied that being the Dark Lord's dog included servicing him in _other_ ways, and Harry wouldn't pretend that he was _happy_ to know that he may be forced into a sexual relationship, but he had gained a certain acceptance for it, and one thing he counted on was that at least if Voldemort used him that way it meant that the man _wanted_ him. Now, he wasn't so sure. He saw no signs of lust, or even vague interest. Then again, it wasn't as if the Slytherin found much interest in anything about Harry. The damn man didn't ever even retrieve him from his room! Not one single time in _six months_!

"What makes you think I don't approve of you touching yourself?" Voldemort inquired idly.

They were still standing very close, Harry realized. Was it narcissistic to become slightly aroused by seeing a memory of yourself in the throes of passion? Or was it a sensory reaction, like when a certain smell puts you in a certain mood?

Or was it even the memory that had Harry half hard in his pants or something else entirely?

After all, they were still standing _very_ close.

"My aunt and uncle used to tell my cousin that it was a sin." Harry explained, not able to think of another cause. He'd known that eventually their relationship would be a sexual one, so of course there wasn't exactly a good reason that he should be showing no signs of his own sexuality but what if his Master wanted him to be completely celibate? Even when it came to himself. Who knew? Harry surely couldn't tell you. He couldn't tell you much of anything. His mind seemed to be traveling a mile a minute in different directions all at once, and the only thing he seemed able to put perfect focus on was that he and Voldemort were really still standing quite _extremely_ close to each other.

"A sin?" Harry was taken out of his thoughts when his Lord spoke and it occurred to him that it was happening quite a lot lately. Perhaps he was thinking too much. The amount of alone time that he'd been getting lately could do that to a person.

"Is that why you show such passion, Zagar? Because you know you are defying a false God?"

Somehow, miraculously, Voldemort had moved closer. They were almost nose to nose now, and if either of them took one more step, Harry was sure that his arousal would be more apparent than he thought appropriate.

"I-Well…"

"The only Lord you will ever know is standing here before you," Voldemort brushed Harry's bangs from his forehead, revealing the scar that was so legendary. The motion was delicate. Gentle, almost. It completely contrasted the even apathetic look in those red eyes, and Harry was confused and aroused all at once.

Yes, he admitted. Aroused. He had at some point within the last three months apparently become _aroused_ by the idea of having his Master touch him. He wanted to be beaten, or even cursed. He wanted some sort of acknowledgement that he existed, and he wanted it from _this_ man – NOT Lucius Malfoy.

"Tell me, Harry," Voldemort's thumb was tracing the scar now, slowly and purposefully, though their eyes still hadn't broken apart. "Is that what makes you hard? Knowing that you are _mine_ now? That no muggle deity could possibly sway your fate? There is no heaven or hell for you anymore, child. This life with me is what you will have forever. Does that inspire you to sin?"

Harry swallowed hard, wondering if maybe he was the only one who had noticed how close they were standing. "I don't think I ever really thought that deeply into it, to be honest."

"Is that all?"

"Is that all of what?" Harry asked, confused by the faintly less smooth sound of Voldemort's voice. His change of tone was miniscule, but noticeable.

"Is that the only thing you've been doing that you believe I wouldn't approve of? Or do you have some other behavior that demands you to be punished?"

Harry saw this as a perfect opportunity to change the subject.

They were standing far too close to be discussing his sex life, even if the only sex he'd been having was with his own hand.

"You've never even had any intention of getting me out of my room, have you?"

A glimmer of something alive passed through Voldemort's usually dead eyes and Harry almost fell over on the spot. For all it was worth though, he received no answer to his question.

"Has this just been some test to see how submissive I am? Do I fail for coming to find you two times in three months of solitude?"

Finally – _finally_ – Voldemort took a step back, putting some much needed distance between them.

"You are much less submissive than I was lead to believe when I saw you at the meeting for my death eaters," the elder man admitted, "Lucius has done much more poorly than he had lead me to believe with you. In fact, between your episode after the party and tonight's behavior, I can't help but feel validated for my previous thought that another two years under his tutelage would be needed for you to reach your full potential as a hound."

He'd failed. His Lord had set him a test to see if his devotion was absolute and he'd failed. He'd absolutely _failed_ as a dog, and doubtlessly he'd be sent back to Malfoy Manor for another two years if not _forever_ just because he was scared that a man who had taken over the damn world couldn't handle a couple of assassins.

"However, if all I wanted was a well-trained dog, I would find someone much more breakable than _you_ – and if what I wanted was an eager submissive I am confident that any number of my loyal would gladly indulge my every desire. What I _do_ want is you. Harry James Potter, and all the pride and defiance that comes with you - at my feet baring my mark and adoring every moment of it. You aren't quite there yet, no, but you're close. From now on, you may explore this property as you like, so long as you stay well out of my way."

Harry was literally taken aback by the words that had just come out of his Lord's mouth. All of them. Voldemort's cold eyes broke away from his then, and the man turned to walk back the way he had come, though he could still feel Harry's gaze on the back of his head. As he rounded the corner that would lead to his wing of the house, he could distantly hear Harry's startled shout down the hall:

"Wait, so I _passed_!"

Honestly, the child was ridiculous. He played right along the way Voldemort had always known he was, and yet managed to surprise him all the while. He could not wait to see what his next encounter with Harry had in store, but he could be sure of one thing. It would be different this time, very different. Things were changing between them in ways that were hidden in plain sight, but also in ways that were unreachable. The only thing certain was that the change was there.

After all, they had been standing _quite_ close.

* * *

 **A/N: Again, sorry for the delay but let's all just thank Merlin that my wifi is up and running!**

 **Huge thanks to those of you that are reading this late and sticking with me! Even bigger thanks to anyone who has favorited, subscribed, or especially reviewed!**

 **Lots of love to you all for reading!**

 **-Beloved**


	7. Our Roots Grow Deep

**A/N: Yes I am still updating this on Thursdays even though it means you get two this week ;)**

 **Chapter Seven: Our Roots Grow Deep – House Oakheart**

Having free reign of the house was more of a treat than Harry had first expected it to be. There were so many rooms to explore and none of them held the morbid sense of pre-meditated abandonment the way that the rooms he'd discovered at Malfoy Manor had. There were no blood-soaked discarded robes to be found here. Instead, it seemed that every object Harry came across was more enchanting than the last.

There was a parlor, only three doors down from the room where he slept, that had the most exquisite coffee table he'd ever laid his eyes on. It was round, and the top was pure crystal. The legs were mother of pearl, and wrapped around them there were strings of ivy made of what according to Tossy was twenty-four karat gold.

Tossy was an excellent tour guide, although she couldn't seem to understand anything that Harry said to her. Harry couldn't pinpoint why that was, but the only conclusion he could come to was that for whatever reason he was still speaking only in Parseltongue. This was somewhat of an annoyance for him, but Tossy was better by the day at reading his intentions. Mostly, she followed him around and pointed out anything that he may find delight in.

Today, he was exploring the attic, which was completely free of dust, although it did have a certain rustic feel that he found pleasant. There weren't any boxes of stored items, or discarded treasures of old that one may expect from an attic. Instead, there was a small amber lamp, sitting atop a mahogany wood end table, and beside it, an old rocking chair.

"Voldy-Lord was having the lamp made in Saudi Arabia, because he is preferring to be reading with muggle light when he is needing his concentration." Tossy explained, scampering over to the table and immediately taking a cloth to it, wiping away some sort of mess that Harry couldn't see at all.

Harry smiled, stroking his finger delicately over the amber and musing over the thought of a young Tom Riddle, studying away under the candlelight at Hogwarts and realizing that he did better with desk lamps like he would have had in his childhood during primary school. This was the only electric lamp he'd seen in the house thus far, so it must be that this was actually a bit of a secret. Harry found it fascinating how unconcerned his Lord seemed to be with him knowing his secrets.

"The silk rug is being from Persia," Tossy said proudly, "Tricky Belly ordered it to be retrieved by Tossy herself!"

As the elf boasted, her ears perked up, and Harry thought she was kind of cute, even though her insistent pet-names for everyone were a bit of a bother. He was also slightly bothered by Bellatrix's habit of gifting the Dark Lord with rare and wonderful objects. It seemed like half of the things in this house that Harry fell in love with were presents from death eaters. In fact, the amber lamp was one of the few objects that Tossy said Voldemort had purchased for himself.

Luckily, they had not yet stumbled upon anything that was from Lucius. Harry didn't think he could stomach a single thing about that man, even something as insignificant as a throw pillow.

The only other things in the attic were books. Lots of books. More books than Harry could even count, much less read. Just looking at all of them was making his head spin, so he lead the way downstairs, cutting off Tossy who was in the middle of explaining that the wood for the rocking chair was from an elder tree beside a river that Voldemort had once taken a very particular interest in.

The journey downstairs didn't stop with the upper floors. Feeling a bit peckish and in want of conversation, Harry resolved to go and make some lunch, and see if he could bring it to his Master. He had been instructed to keep out of Voldemort's way, but surely that didn't mean that the man _never_ wanted to see him, right? In fact, keeping out of his way was something that appeared to come rather effortlessly.

To be blunt – The Dark Lord had disappeared.

He wasn't in his office, he wasn't in the library, and he wasn't in any of the other rooms Harry had been frequenting for the past few weeks.

Well, for the past few months. Harry's life had taken on a bit of a routine, and while he was glad for the freedom to explore this vast amount of space, he was still nervous about what awaited him in the future. What happened when the test was over? When his Master was tired of this game of endless hide and seek.

It had been four months since he had seen the man in the hallway. Four months since he had seen the man at all, which meant seven months since he'd escaped Lucius and he had seen his true Lord less times than he could count on his fingers.

It seemed the only thing he could do to attract the man's attention was to act out. Perhaps Voldemort _wanted_ a misbehaving dog?

Harry couldn't say. What he could say was this – the damn man was nowhere to be found. And Harry was no longer willing to see that as something to be put out about. In fact, it was quite fortunate. In the months without the Malfoy patriarch torturing him at any given moment, he was proud to say he had regained some of his will for independence.

Which is what brought him, two hours after his search, into the foyer. The front door was gorgeous. It was a magical door, crafted by sheer power. At first glance, it looked like solid metal, and then if you looked harder, water.

Harry had looked at it quite a lot, and discovered that what it truly was made of was sheer _magic_ and nothing else. The shape of it was constantly in flux, and the ropey strangles of not-quite-solid matter were producing light. When you stepped too close, you could _feel_ it – like a shivering on the back of your neck.

For several days after discovering it, Harry had been thoroughly afraid of the door. There was no telling how many wards were on it, and surely at least half of them were to keep him _in_ just as much as they were to keep others _out_.

But the death eaters crossed the threshold at will, it seemed. Without a care in the world. There was some kind of magic in the mark that must be combating the magic of the door, and Harry figured that perhaps, just once, Voldemort had suffered from a small oversight.

After all, Harry had been marked himself.

He held his breath, and clenched his fists. He had half a mind to close his eyes but acknowledged how foolish it would have been. And then he walked. One step. Another, and another. The magic washed over him and tingled every single nerve in his body – but when he opened his eyes (apparently he _had_ ended up shutting them after all) he was on the other side.

There was a walkway in front of him. He was out of the house.

 _He was out of the house_.

He'd escaped! No more Lucius, no more Voldemort, no more torture of the body and mind. No more horrible men twisting his thoughts and actions into whatever _they_ found most convenient. No more worries about any of that.

Harry was free.

 **XxBxExLxOxVxExDxX**

Voldemort was well aware of the fact that he was a rather paranoid man. He was okay with that. Paranoia didn't equate fear, after all. He knew that he couldn't be bested, that there was nothing in the world that could possibly subdue him – but still, the paranoia was there. This, he believed, was a part of what kept him safe.

He was very secretive by nature, and saw no reason why he shouldn't be. This was something that all of his followers were also well aware of, which explained how it was that Lucius Malfoy was so thoroughly shocked when after answering his Lord's summons, he found himself in the man's own bedroom, rather than his much more public office.

"My Lord?" Lucius asked nervously, quite uncomfortable with Voldemort's tall and imposing form. The man was standing extremely still. More still than should be humanly possible, in fact.

"I think it is time that the two of us discuss Harry again. Don't you?"

The blond swallowed thickly. He had been waiting for this moment for nearly a year now. He never did know exactly why it was that Potter hadn't been sent back to him, but he was rather curious to see what tortures the dog had suffered under the Dark Lord's hand.

"Of course," He answered readily, "Has he been to your liking? I'll admit, he is a bit outside of my personal tastes, but I've always thought he'd make a good fuck for _someone_ either way."

Voldemort's expression did not change one way or the other.

"I wouldn't know," He admitted, which only worried Lucius all the more.

Nearly eight months and he still hadn't had the boy? That seemed rather ridiculous. Lucius couldn't imagine going eight _weeks_ without one of his whores, and he was well aware that his Lord hadn't met with anyone for a sexual purpose since his rebirth. Lucius monitored the wards on this house himself, and every person to pass the threshold without a dark mark had been some sort of political emissary.

"Are you giving him back?" He asked, confused. He'd rather not be burdened with the hound's stench, but he _did_ scream prettily and Lucius was particularly fond of the cries of tortured men.

"I would die myself before I let you lay a hand on that child," Voldemort commented, twirling his wand idly with his fingers as he gazed into his fireplace. Lucius was glad for the movement.

"I mean you no offense, my Lord, but I am not quite sure what it is you wish to discuss."

Voldemort looked blankly at his servant. There were many who would consider Lucius to be his most loyal, but he knew that was not the case. Lucius Malfoy was the biggest disappointment of his generation – and a shame to his father. Abraxas had been so much more … devout.

"Ten minutes ago, Harry left the house."

"He _escaped_?"

"He walked out of the front door." Voldemort explained, keeping his features completely emotionless even as his mind was overcome with mirth. Such a silly little ward he'd acquired. So predictable.

"You want me to retrieve him?" Lucius asked, more confused by the second.

"I want you to follow him, and ensure that he remains safe until his return."

It was at this suggestion that Lucius realized something was going very differently from the way he'd imagined. If Harry was being tortured as his Lord had suggested he would be – what in Merlin's name would motivate the mutt to come back here?

Regardless, Lucius did as he was told. He set out to find the wayward mongrel and then shadowed him for the next hour, watching restlessly as Harry managed to commandeer a wand from a sleeping witch and then apparate all over Britain. First, he went to Hogwarts. He stood outside of the gates and watched the students mull around in the distance, their green and silver ties catching beautifully in the setting sunlight as they rushed to be indoors before curfew.

Harry wept, staring at the castle he had once called home, and then disappeared with another loud crack. Lucius, again, traced the little idiot's magical signature. This time it took him to the House of Black. He was in no hurry to reminisce over the lives of his in-laws, but Harry seemed to be somewhat tied to this place. He walked up to the front door, and stepped inside. Lucius cast a very strong disillusionment charm and followed him in, watching silently as Harry continued to cry, which was curious considering the immaculate condition the estate was in.

"Sirius would have hated this," The dog said softly, "Seeing his family home returned to its former glory. He hated the lot of them."

Harry left the house, and their next stop was a house that looked as if it was hardly held upright. Harry traveled through its rooms as if he knew the place well, and sniffled when he came across various old and broken things. They entered what looked to be some sort of a closet (Lucius realized later that it was meant as a bedroom) and Harry stopped dead in his tracks, seeing a piece of clothing on the floor. He picked it up and revealed it to be a huge and considerably hideous jumper. It was quite moth-bitten, and full of holes and dust, but one could still make out the vague impression of a large letter 'R' on the front. This sent Harry into another round of tears, and Lucius was quite ready to be home and in bed with some nameless woman or even his _wife_ , and very much bored of following around silly young wizards who didn't mean anything to anyone anymore.

The final place Harry visited was a horrible little muggle neighborhood. Every house on the street seemed exactly the same, but the boy maneuvered expertly through the streets nonetheless until they came to one called Privet Drive. Again, he sobbed in despair, his shoulders shook and his body hunched over. Until suddenly, he was laughing. He was laughing loudly and insanely, and Lucius could see one of the neighbors poking her face against a yellow-lit window to see what the ruckus was outdoors.

"Every place I have ever thought of as my home is gone," Harry said, seemingly unconcerned with this, "Hogwarts with only Slytherin students, Number 12 looking like its fresh out of the pureblood glory days, The Burrow feeling like anything _but_ love and warmth, and now this. Number 4 Privet drive. The first home I can remember. I considered going to Godric's Hallow, but what good would that do? I've made that mistake already. I have no business there. I was always made to return _here_ after all. This horrible perfect house where I thought I first learned the definition of misery." Harry smiled, and turned towards Lucius, looking him right in the eye as if he had never disillusioned himself at all, "Of course, I would never understand pain until I got to know _you_ ," He mused.

"I understand now, Lucius. I bet he didn't even send you to come get me, did he?" Harry asked, blinking away tears again, his face contorting into a manifestation of agony, "Why would he?" His voice was weak, cracking with the effort of forming words that seemed to hurt him. "Why would he ever need to pull me back to his side, when there is no other place left that I belong?"

"How presumptuous of you to assume that you would belong _there_." Lucius snarled, sticking up his nose at the teen, "As if _you_ are worthy to be anywhere other than beneath his feet!"

"At least beneath his feet there is something holding me to the earth. I would rather be tread upon than left lost wandering in a world that has moved forward without me. Everyone that I love is dead. I am the only one left to fight for the cause they died for, and there is no way for me to win without my own demise. Voldemort has had me trapped far longer than I have been willing to see, and now he has allowed me to pull at the ropes fully aware that it will do nothing but prove how tightly I am bound." Harry's eyes were downcast but his lips lifted in a half-mad grin.

"I have no interest in the way you view the woes of the world," Lucius stated plainly.

Harry laughed again, in earnest, and Lucius wondered how a creature with such a cruel life could be so jolly.

"I haven't the foggiest idea how to get back home," Harry admitted, "Oh! Wait, Rabastan taught me…" He pulled out the witch's wand, pressed it against his back, and then in a cloud of black smoke, he was gone, being pulled through the skies as he got closer and closer to his Lord.

Finally, he landed rather hardly on his hands and knees, face two inches away from Voldemort's exquisitely polished shoes.

"Well isn't _this_ symbolic," Harry said, chuckling as he scurried away from the man, "Long time no see."

"You have returned from your little adventure, I take it?"

Harry looked around and noticed that he was in the attic, and Voldemort was sitting in the rocking chair, reading by the light of the amber lamp. Honestly, it was as if this entire day was playing on a loop.

"Yes," He answered, "Are you finished hiding from me?"

Voldemort glared, but Harry sensed a calm nature behind it that he wouldn't have noticed before.

"I am literally the ruler of the world, Harry. I have no reason to hide from you."

Harry shrugged, and stretched out on his back atop the Persian rug that Tossy was so proud of, using his newly acquired wand to summon himself a service of tea and a book, "Good. Because I'm finished hiding from myself."

"Oh?" Voldemort shut his book, and Harry admitted he was slightly intimidated to be given the man's full attention.

"Whatever mind game you've been playing – having me starved, tortured, and then utterly ignored. This endless process of me battling myself to keep pieces of me alive. You won. You did it. You have me now exactly as you said you wanted me. Harry James Potter, and everything that comes with him. I understand it now, my Lord. You were never out to break my spirit, were you? You've always known it couldn't be done. So you broke my mind, and you broke the people I love, and you broke the world I fought for, and then you let me try to crazy glue the pieces together over and over and _over_ again until I finally realized that it's impossible. I can think straight, and I can function – but the shards that make me who I am still have oozing ridges of poor adhesive holding them together. I'll never be the same after what you've done. Ever. I can leave this prison, and go looking for a place to escape to, but I'll never be able to escape myself, and the me I am today is a person of _your_ creation, whether I like it or not."

Harry shook his head, and scoffed softly to himself. "I was a fool for ever thinking that a lack of physical punishment made you any less influential than Lucius. You may not beat me daily and shout at me that I'm a filthy dog, but you dismiss me like I'm worthless, even after you _made_ him teach me that you are the only person who can give me worth! Even now that I _see_ how you changed me, it doesn't make me any less changed! So congrats to you on a job well done. I am utterly and completely at your service."

"Yes," Voldemort agreed, setting the book completely down on the end table, "You have had quite the strenuous day, and I have a great many things to accomplish tomorrow. I'll walk you to your rooms."

He stood, regally, and Harry followed behind him down the attic steps, remaining completely silent along the way until they got back to his bedroom.

"Will I see you tomorrow, or is this going to turn into another three month shunning period?"

Voldemort did not answer him, but his eyes lit up, in that way they did when he _almost_ smiled. "Goodnight, Zagar."

 **A/N: Hope you guys liked the new chapter! I'm updating this in the wee hours of the morning, as I won't have any time during the day and I don't want you all to have to wait.**

 **Big thanks to everyone who subscribes and favorites, HUGE thanks to the reviewers! You give me strength!**

 **I love each and every one of my readers!**

 **-Beloved**


	8. None So Dutiful

**A/N: I know I've been gone for an obscenely long time and most of you think this fic is abandoned but um... it's not. I'm just having to kind of write it as I go now because due to reasons too complex to get into right now, I am no longer in posession of any of my documents from my last two computers. Including both the remaining chapters and the OUTLINE for this fanfic which has been making it really hard to work on. BUT - No, it is not abandoned.**

 **Chapter Eight: None So Dutiful - House Hastwyck**

* * *

The next day there was a Death Eater meeting, only to include the Dark Lord's Inner Circle. Harry, more optimistic about his welcome here than he had been in the months prior, decided that he was going to attend. He woke up early, and for the first time – dressed _himself_ , making a few alterations to his usual ensemble with the wand he'd procured on his little outing.

He was barefoot, in a black shirt, long sleeved, and black slacks. They were clothes that he'd had in his wardrobe as soon as he'd first explored it, but he did make one _slight_ change. To the shirt. He altered it so that it was tighter at the bottom along the hem, and converted the collar into a halter, leaving his back (and, as a result, the dark mark that twisted down his spine) completely exposed. He wasn't sure what reaction it would get from the Dark Lord _himself_ , but he knew what purpose he needed it to serve.

The Death Eaters, _especially_ the Inner Circle, needed to understand that Harry was not _amongst_ them. He was his own person, even if one designated to a life of dehumanization and servitude. The way that he served _his_ Lord was none of _their_ business. He was not marked as _they_ were marked. He did not serve as _they_ served. If they never truly witnessed it themselves, how would they ever see? Mostly, he just wanted to preen in front of Lucius now that he was sure he was well out of the man's reach – but that was something Harry decided to keep quietly to himself.

His Lord seemed just the slightest bit surprised to see Harry when the younger man arrived in the floo room, head held tall. His green eyes met Voldemort's red, and he approached him, then fell easily to his knees, crumbling before his Lord. How could he not? It was merely a physical representation of the mental state they both knew he'd fallen into long, long ago. He looked up to the taller man, and offered a subservient smile.

"May I accompany you, my Lord?"

Thin, white, hands cradled his face, and he blinked adoring eyes up at the other man. He did, he realized, _adore him_. He wasn't sure when it'd begun, but it was better this way, he believed. Better to be fooled by the twisting in his stomach and chest, fooled enough to call it like, or love, or anything _good_. Rather than the twisted, sickening, urgency of obsession. Better to ignore the way that obsession had been beaten and blistered into his skin – manhandled and manipulated into his mind.

Voldemort looked over his shoulder, eyes raking down the expanse of Harry's revealed back, taking in the sight of it before he nodded, seeming (Harry thought) at least the slightest bit pleased.

"You know where I am going, don't you?" His Lord questioned, fingers still cupping his dog's cheeks. It was almost tender, if not for the way they felt like sharp icicles against his warm skin. But how could he have thought that touches between them would ever feel unlike a deathly caress?

"Malfoy Manor," Harry replied, easily, not looking anywhere but into his Lord's deep red eyes. The man still hadn't turned away, and Harry had no intention of doing so unless he was told to, "I am not afraid, my Lord. I know your most faithful would not dare behave in any way that was against your wishes."

Had his face not been hairless, his brow would have raised. Harry interpreted the expression that way, anyhow, "Right you are, Zagar. And if it is my wish for them to _torture_ you? Then what? Do not forget I sanctioned and approved every pain you suffered at Lucius' hands."

Harry reached up to his own face, pulling one of his Master's hands off of his cheek and kissing the palm slowly, softly, _devotedly_. Had there ever been another more willing to bend to this man's will? Of course not. Who else had he destroyed so thoroughly as The Boy Who Lived?

"If it is _your_ wish, my Lord, then it is also _mine_."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he was tugged close – closer than he could ever recall _being_ , and then with a loud Crack!, they were gone in a haze of black smoke, appearing in Malfoy Manor's foyer moments later.

Harry wondered, more as a curiosity than a worry, whether he _would_ be tortured and humiliated at the meeting. As he'd said, he didn't have a preference one way or another. He wanted to be put to use. To _belong_ to his Master the way he had suffered for. The definition of that ownership could only be defined by Voldemort himself.

They separated themselves, and he was lead into the meeting room – a room that he was fairly familiar with at this point, though he had never come in through this entrance before. He walked behind his Master, a one of his hands clutching at the back of his robes.

The Death Eaters all stood as they entered, and Harry could feel their eyes on him, hot and blazing against his skin. His Lord sat, and Harry knelt down between his legs, facing him, eyes directed up at his Master's face, refusing to look back at the others at all. He had no need to. They weren't important. He could hear the murmuring, though. Hear the shocked whisper-yells of those of them who were not in attendance the day he'd _gotten_ the mark that he now displayed so proudly. Voldemort's hand came down to rest on his shoulder and he could feel the mark shift, she snake winding further out of the skull and coming up to nip at its creator's fingers.

It was _playful_ , Harry realized, and wondered if maybe the snake could see a softer side of Voldemort than the rest of the world could. Had Harry been exposed to that side, as well? He thought he had, but wouldn't fool himself into believing for a single moment that he understood the man.

"It seems my faithful may have a few questions for you, Zagar. It would please me for you to answer them,"

Nodding, Harry turned, body still facing the Dark Lord, but looking back over his shoulder to see the astonished expressions of his Master's elite.

"Yes?" He beckoned, welcoming any words they might have for him. Nothing could possibly change from anything they'd say, anyhow. Why not appease them, if his Lord desired it?

However, much as they stared and gawked at him … none of them seemed to have anything to say. Harry turned his attention back to Voldemort, unsure of how to proceed if they didn't have any questions to ask, "My Lord?" He questioned, turning his head just the slightest bit to place a gentle kiss to the inside of Voldemort's thigh, just above the knee.

He could hear a loud gasp behind them, and had to bite his cheeks to withhold a laugh. His Lord, he thought, seemed equally amused.

"They think you're hissing at them," He explained to Harry, who promptly blushed, not having realized that he'd reverted to parseltongue _again_. What was it with his subconscious that made him keep _doing that_? He knew it must have something to do with Voldemort. He just didn't exactly understand it.

"They're jealous, that you and I can have private conversations right in front of them like this. They feel that I have shorted them – that I have _given you_ the language of snakes as a reward, to show my favor."

Harry wasn't _trying_ to be smug, but he could feel that he _was_. The pride tickled at his neck pleasantly, and he could still see the amusement in his Master's eyes. Even so, he didn't want to interrupt the meeting more than he already had. He bowed his head, leaning into Voldemort's thigh and sighing with relaxation, completely at ease with the man so near. He didn't really listen as their meeting progressed, just basking in his Master's presence, feeling his fingers against his shoulder, the snake still toying with them as he spoke

Harry could understand the English, but he heard the difference. It was more stiff, somehow. More hallow. He knew he'd spoken normally to Lucius just _yesterday,_ he knew. Perhaps, he had suffered so much agony at Lucius' hands that even his most subconscious level of existence didn't dare speak to him in a manner that he couldn't understand.

When the meeting was finally over, he felt his lord's free hand threading through his hair, tugging at the inky tresses lightly, as if to get his attention. Harry looked up, and yawned, realizing he'd fallen asleep with his head in his Master's lap, the thought was comforting to him. Cementing, somehow. He realized that the soothing emotion was _acceptance_ , and he welcomed it. Glad for the relief.

"It's time to go, Harry."

Worry pinched at his throat, and he inched closer, his chin almost touching Voldemort's abdomen, he could still hear the shuffling of the Death Eaters behind him, and knew that they wouldn't dare go so far as to leave the room until the Dark Lord did so first, just in case, as a passing whim, he found something else to say to them.

"Will you disappear again?" Harry asked, "I wanted—" He cut himself off, not sure that he should be so insubordinate in front of the others. He knew that his Lord seemed to … almost _enjoy_ him speaking his mind in _private_ … but surely not publicized like this. Right?

"You wanted what, Zagar?"

He could tell that Voldemort was speaking English, and this embarrassed him further. He, himself, could not work out how to break from parseltongue, while it seemed his Lord weaved in and out of it seamlessly. Still, he released a breath, and revealed what he'd been trying to keep to himself:

"I wanted to serve you … _more_ , My Lord." He doesn't want to have to spell it out, feeling embarrassed to really explain what it was that he wanted to do. He knew that a part of it was _not_ out of a desire to please his Master, that he was also seeking pleasure for _himself_. Maybe that was why it was so shameful.

"More," Voldemort drawled, somehow slowing it down despite the fact that the word only had one syllable. It was parseltongue again, Harry realized, the switching between the two making his head spin. He could barely distinguish the difference, but it was dizzying to have both directed towards him in such a short span of time, "Show me."

Harry's eyes widened, and he blushed, all the way down his chest. The Death Eaters were still at his back, mulling around the room having idle chat. Caught in some delusion that they were still here of their own free will when they were, in fact, waiting to be dismissed by a man whose attention had already shifted completely past their existence.

"M-Master, I don't think—" Harry's jaw was captured suddenly in Voldemort's grip, and the hold was so firm – so _violent_ , that it sent shivers down his spine. Harry nearly swooned. He didn't think he could recall this man being outwardly _aggressive_ towards him since the day he'd been captured, and it was a peculiarly _nostalgic_ feeling that somehow had turned itself pleasant rather than frightening.

"When did it become your job to _think_?" Voldemort questioned, bitterly, his sharp fingernails digging harshly into Harry's cheeks as he yanked his head up so hard that his neck ached and he was forced to rest his palms against the elder man's thighs for support, their faces nearly touching. He could feel the other's icy breath against his lips, the coldness making his teeth chatter as the taste of death danced fleetingly on his tongue, "Is it now _you_ who decides what is best for _me_ , Zagar?"

Harry wants to kiss him, and he looks into his eyes as he imagines it, imagines what it'd be like to feel the forked tongue against his own – the clash of his own mouth against Voldemort's lipless one, the feeling of his warm, soft, skin against the Dark Lord's frozen and marble-like body. He imagines, and he _wants_ , the imagery turning more desperate even in his mind's eye. He knows, without even having to note the intrusion, that his Master sees _it all_. That he is there, in Harry's mind, watching the fantasy play out, and then suddenly it's over. He's standing up, and yanking Harry's head back by his hair, and Harry _moans,_ which silences the room and draws the attention of everyone in it so suddenly that you'd have thought it was Voldemort who'd spoken.

"Do you think me a _fool,_ Harry Potter?" He murmured out, and the energy around them buzzed, as if they were all waiting for his punishment, waiting to knock him down from his _high horse_. Harry smiled, undeterred by their repulsive voyeurism.

"No, My Lord," Finally, he was speaking normally – in _English_. He realized quickly what the difference was. It was Voldemort _himself_. It was _his will_. Harry answered him the way he wanted to be answered – addressed him the way he wanted to be addressed. Spoke in the language, he _wanted to hear_. He could tell that his Master was putting on a show, could tell that he wanted everyone to _understand them_ , and so he fell – too easily – out of the comforting hisses he'd grown so accustomed to.

"Do you think I don't _realize_? That I can't see the way you want to be fucked, and battered, and _used_ by me? You have desired nothing _more_ , since the moment Lucius first set you at my feet and you dare to _presume_ that these fantasies of _yours_ would be a service _to me_?" His voice is low, and sharp, and _cruel_. Harry's breaths are short and erratic in response, and he all but melts against Voldemort's painful hold.

"My _Master_ ," Harry drawls out, easily, his eyes meeting Voldemort's as he smiles gently in the face of the man's wrath, "I do believe that I see more than you know."

He can feel her gearing up behind him, like an itch on his neck, and then she is _hollering_ at him, and he only half understands it. He's sure that the phrase ' _You dare speak to your LORD like that, you insolent little half-breed!'_ but he has eyes, and _ears_ , only for their shared superior. Bellatrix can shout all she likes and it wouldn't make him even flinch.

Voldemort, however, diverts his attention, staring at the woman coldly, "Do not be so presumptuous _yourself_ , little girl," He warns, and she is silent once more.

Harry almost laughs as it dawns on him that while Bella is easily old enough to be his parent, Voldemort is old enough to be _hers_. Well, the Dark Army had nothing if not _diversity_. In all but blood status, that was… and wealth.

"You're right, my Lord," Harry states, proudly, "I want all of that, I want to be _used_ , and battered, and _hurt_ by you, but …" He shakes loose of the grip Voldemort has on him, and uses the new freedom to take a step _closer_ , rather than to step back, "But – that desire is what _you_ want, isn't it? Harry James Potter, defiant and loyal and _brave_ and _strong_ and – God – so fucking _stupid_ , but undoubtedly, _irrevocably yours_ ," He knelt down again, bowing completely, his forehead on the floor between his Lord's feet, "You have been waiting so long for me to _see_ , Master … for me to _know_ that I am owned, the way you've always _known_ ," The urge to press kisses against Voldemort's ankles is overwhelming but Harry ignores it, "Please, Sir … do not let me make you wait any longer…"

He could hear Lucius snickering in the background, and then – less familiar, but still undoubtedly _Lucius_ , an agonized scream. He looked up to see the Elder Wand in Voldemort's hand and was impressed to discover that it was possible to Crucio someone wordlessly. He _understood_ , though. He understood it all, with such clarity that it was strange he hadn't known before. How could Voldemort not detest the part of Lucius that had tortured Harry, despite having signed off on it _himself_?

His lord was a master manipulator, Harry knew. There was no way that he could ever have gotten Harry to _crave him_ the way he did if he'd tortured him himself, unless he was willing to break him entirely. Which, Harry realized, Voldemort had never wanted in the first place. Still, to feel such possessive ownership over Harry, it must have irritated him to know that another man had terrorized him. Especially considering how much Voldemort himself got off on terror. Which Harry didn't know of _first hand_ , but could still _tell_ by his behavior.

The Death Eaters were getting more and more riled up behind him, clearly not understanding why their Lord had lashed out the way he had, and Harry rose once again, his arms wrapping around Voldemort's waist, head rested against his chest. He could hear the outrage that broke out, and feel the tension it caused in the body pressed so closely to his. They did not understand that just as much as he was Voldemort's, Voldemort was _his_. There was no way to have one reality without the other. Was that why his Lord had molded him so perfectly, he wondered? Because he _too_ wanted to _belong_?

He could feel the magic stirring and crackling around Voldemort's body and he squeezed him tighter, not wanting to cause a rift between the man and his most loyal followers over something that none of them could even _begin_ to understand…

"Forgive them, Master," Harry whispered, "They know not what they do,"

He thinks of that night, in the hallway. The way that Voldemort had spoken of _God_. He was right. _He_ was the only Lord that held any importance anymore, and Harry's choice of words was a salute to that, as much as it was a genuine attempt to quell his rising anger. He reaches up, and cups Voldemort's face in his hand, letting their eyes meet, despite feeling he might drown or _suffocate_ from the intensity, "Lord, do not hold this sin against them…"

Voldemort apparates them, again. Right through the wards, both the Manor's and his own. Harry can feel the break of them shattering, and he holds his breath, squeezing his eyes shut until all is still again. He is in a bed, he realizes, but not his own.

"My Lord?" He questions, unsure if what he hopes is about to happen is really about to happen. His eyes are staring into Voldemort's and his nose is nearly touching Voldemort's face, his lips nearly touching Voldemort's mouth. They are chest to chest on what he can only assume is _Voldemort's_ bed and Harry begins to think that what he wants to happen is actually, really, _definitely about to happen_.

"Harry James Potter," Voldemort breathes into his skin, "At long last, truly _mine_."

" _Yours_ ," Harry agrees, just as breathlessly, and then suddenly – _finally –_ they are kissing, and kissing, and _kissing_ , and he had never even known it was possible to ignite a fire inside the human stomach, but everything was being set ablaze and he was falling, and falling, and _falling_ too fast to ever even notice that already, so long ago, before he'd even begun his descent in the first place – Voldemort had caught him, and caught him, and _held him so tightly_ that he relearned the word home. And it was here, it was _now_ , it was _this_ _moment_ – and he'd been waiting, and waiting, and _waiting_ for so _long_ that it had to be the end, but he could feel, and smell, and _taste_ that it was only just beginning.

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 **A/N: As Always, a huge thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story and a warm welcome to anyone who is just joining us. I am ever grateful to all of you for reading, subscribing, favoriting, and reviewing.**

 **Love Always,**

 **Beloved**


	9. A Taste of Glory

**A/N: Hello, hello! Welcome to what's probably the weirdest chapter of this fanfic aka the mandatory 'Voldemort is slowly losing his fucking shit in a way he is not used to having lost his shit before' chapter, aka the mandatory 'Things kind of go okay for Harry for once' chapter.**

 **Please Enjoy!**

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 **Chapter Nine: A Taste of Glory – House Fossoway of Cider Hall**

Voldemort had been kissed before, and been worshipped before – but never so thoroughly, and never so _simultaneously_. There was no beginning nor end to one or the other, with Harry. It was a sinuous overlap, a fusing of emotion that was overwhelming to behold, but welcomed despite its heady nature. The boy was _his_. No one else's, and it showed, in even the most subtle of ways.

Warm lips, first, against his mouth. Harry was not someone who could ever have been described as _soft_. He didn't have a tendency to do things halfway, and this was prevalent in his romance as much as it always had been in his fury. Passion, of course, remained _passion_ , no matter how it chose to direct itself. Devotion, however was a more _eclectic_ beast altogether. It came in many different metaphorical colors, shapes, and sizes – and Harry Potter, for Lord Voldemort, displayed _all of them_.

His kisses traveled, lips trailing against the hard and cold surface of the Dark Lord's cheek bones, his jaw, his temple – all over his face, and then back to his mouth, tongue lapping at the seam for just a moment. Never pushing, never prodding, not at all forceful, only _yearning_ , and … visibly delighted. His fingers fluttered against Voldemort's neck, against the patterns of his veins, a subtle thump felt on the flesh there, where his own pulse beat against Harry's exploring hands.

"It's such an honor," The boy breathed, brushing his nose across his Master's cheek, and then smiling coyly, " _I can touch you, now_ …"

The words are familiar, of course, and Voldemort allows himself to release the smallest of chuckles, shifting his position slightly and initiating his own display of … _near_ affection. The kiss is placed not necessarily on Harry himself, but rather against his scar, and there is no illusion to be had between them of what Voldemort truly values in this boy, but there never really was in the first place. The moment the contact is made, he suddenly finds himself completely _nude_ , and then the laugh that escapes is significantly stronger and more genuine.

"That … was an accident," Harry confessed, eyes wide open as a blush rose to quickly cover his cheeks, "I know I'm um … a little _old_ for accidental magic, but—"

Old? The mere implication of this … _infantile_ creature being old had Voldemort's mirth on the up and up, and his arms squeezed tightly around Harry's torso as he laid his head down on his chest and continued laughing. The boy had never bored him. Not once. Although, he was unsure if he'd be able to go through with his announced consequence if he _had_. There was no way on earth, heaven, or hell that Lucius would touch his Dog again.

"Your soul has … merged with my own somehow, Harry," He explained, thin pale fingers tracing the signature lightning bolt, "You would be in excruciating pain, otherwise – with us so near to one another. Don't you remember?"

He knew Harry remembered. Memory loss was not one of his many flaws, and Voldemort had certainly harmed him enough times for it to be memorable.

"What … what does that that mean? For _you_ , I mean?" The child asked, and the Dark Lord was impressed by the wordplay. Their fates were, at this point, thoroughly entwined, and Harry knew it. He could play tactful all he liked by saying 'what does that mean for _you_?' even when the real inquiry was 'what does that mean for _me_?'

The answer to both questions was identical, of course.

"It means it is impossible for me to ever remove my horcrux from your body without destroying both of you – which leaves you forever by my side," And a very _long_ forever, if things went as he wanted them to. Which, lately, they did, "It also means our magical cores may … _leech_ abilities from one another. The same way you are able to speak parseltongue, you are able to perform wandless magic. Like most new abilities, it's only natural for your first few go's at it to be accidental,"

Harry's face was taking on the coloring of a beautifully ripe tomato, and Voldemort smiled against his chest, looking up at him with clear amusement.

"Are you telling me right now … that I've been able to do wandless magic this _whole time_ , and the first thing I do … is _strip_?" He covers his face with obvious embarrassment and groans, and Voldemort can't be sure what prompts him to lay a soothing hand against his shoulder, but he does it. Sitting up, he leans on his free arm and gazes down at Harry. Or, gazes down at Harry's _hands_ for long enough that the other must have felt his stare, since a few moments later Avada Kedavra eyes are peering through tan fingers.

"The first thing you ever did with my wandless magic was escape Lucius. I felt it from downstairs, and _knew_. Right away. Exactly what you are. Tell me – do you find more relief in knowing that your betrayal of Severus was not what earned you this new life, or in knowing that your first transgression as a wielder of such powerful new skill was not for the sake of your own sexual agenda?"

Harry's hands finally abandoned his face, instead resting themselves on his Lord's chest, now bare and in clear view if he looked down at the space between them. Which, he was obviously making a point _not_ to do, likely in consideration of what _else_ looking in that direction would reveal.

"I think I'd find the most relief in cutting this conversation short and furthering my _sexual agenda_ , as you so eloquently titled it," The kisses returned with a new fervor, Harry's breath warm against Voldemort's neck, and then collar bone, seemingly overcome with the want to dote on every bit of skin that he could reach, which the Dark Lord minded not at all. Such passion … the list of reasons he was on top of the world seemed to grow each moment he spent at his hound's side. The list was not the only thing he could feel growing, either. Harry had already been half-hard against his Lord's hip moments ago, but the more his lips and fingers kissed and caressed the more prominent the feeling of him became, and in what felt like no time at all, he was gasping for air.

It seemed that, quite suddenly, his silly little ward had realized some of that _relief_ he was so desperately chasing could be gotten from rocking up – erection pressing into Voldemort's cold and scaly skin so much more _fearlessly_ than he could recall any past lovers. Harry did not seem at all perturbed by the … paleness. The hard marble of him. The way his body felt like ice – like _a corpse_.

Before that fateful Halloween night, all those years ago, Voldemort's last truly _pleasant_ sexual experience had not been his own at all. Rather, a distant memory belonging to _Tom Riddle_. The more immortal he became, the more grotesque his visage, and the last few romps he'd endured had been with partners that were more driven by a desire to please _him_ than _themselves_. How ironic, and yet … oddly _endearing_ , that this dog of his – trained and battered and _forced_ to desire nothing more than his _Master's_ pleasure … was currently rutting against him with absolutely no generosity in his motivation. Harry wanted him because Harry _wanted him_. It was a seed he'd planted and watered himself, of course, but it blossomed into something more honest than he had ever dreamed it would be.

After his rebirth, more snakelike and inhuman than ever before, he hadn't even thought to pursue romantic endeavors. _So sure_ he was that he could do nothing but **disgust** any lover he took. They would have let him inside of them anyway, of course. Not _daring_ to defy him … but it was not the same. The way Harry touched him now was not _the same_.

"My body is made of _death_ ," He uttered, staring down at Harry's squeezed shut eyes and bite-bruised lips. The Potter boy was rocking more quickly now, his cock sliding in the lubrication of his own pre-cum, nearly burning hot against the freezing cool of his Master's thigh, "How can you write against it with such … lifelike vigor?" The man mused, narrowing his gaze in genuine confusion. Knowing and _witnessing_ Harry's want for him were two completely different things, and while he'd understood well enough that his dog craved the _idea_ of him by now, this was not a reality he expected to see upheld in an actual sexual circumstance.

"Opposing you has always brought me death," Harry whispered, stilling himself and opening his eyes, and they were _so green_ , as if attempting to visually _accent_ his statement, " _Adoring you_ , however …" He trailed off, not finishing, or not knowing how. More kisses. Always more kisses. Like he couldn't get enough of them. How could that be? He didn't care if the places on Voldemort's body that he so readily pressed his lips into were marble-smooth skin, blue-green veins, or snake-like scales. He kissed it all, touched it all, embraced _it all_.

"My Lord?" He finally questioned, what must have been several minutes later. He was still diamond hard and _dripping_ , but no longer stealing his pleasure from the elder man's thigh, "I don't … Lucius never quite covered _etiquette_ … What exactly is the next step here, I — Should I use my mouth? I _do_ want to taste you, it's just … I can't get enough of _this_ , but you seem bored, so–"

"I'm not bored, Harry," He reassured, readjusting his own body and letting his hips sink _down_ against where Harry had been thrusting his _up_. His own arousal found friction against Harry's and it was a wonder he'd not noticed that he, too, was _quite hard_.

Harry, for his part, _did_ notice, and whimpered quite prettily, jerking up against him and releasing a rather needy _whine_ , "This is … _mmmm_ …" His pelvis went back to rocking, blunt nails digging into Voldemort's waist for leverage as he humped himself upwards with quickly increasing urgency. The feel of him was so _alive_. So **warm**. Harry Potter, his _immortality_ , breathing life right into him with every gasp and broken word.

"It is, yes," He agreed, rolling them over onto their sides to alleviate the tension of holding his bodyweight away from Harry's smaller and more fragile chest. This new angle allowed a lot more of that craved contact on Harry's part, and the boy seemed to discover in a single instant that he could indulge in frottage and kissing at the _same time_ , which brought the little whimpers escaping his throat to a new volume, until with a sudden moan that sounded indicative of _genuine shock_ , he was cumming all over both of them. And then still. Too still, considering the rapid beating of his heart against his Master's chest.

He buried his face into Voldemort's neck and laid there, frozen, and the Dark Lord could not help but roll his eyes, "You're embarrassed," He stated. It was, after all, the clear truth and not a personal opinion. Harry nodded against him, and clutched onto him more tightly.

"You've never had a single orgasm in your life brought on by more than your own imagination, it's only natural that you'd finish more quickly with the object of your wayward desires as an active participant,"

The mutt groaned, "Yeah but … you didn't um – I mean, you don't even seem _close_ to—"

"I'm not," He confirmed, grinning madly and wondering if it even mattered to him that Harry's head wasn't up to see it, "It's a first, actually. Every other lover I've taken has always ensured my satisfaction before their own,"

This time, Harry's whimper was more mortification than arousal, and Voldemort was actually having a difficult time trying not to laugh. He tightened his embrace, and did not let himself wonder where his _evil plots_ necessitated showing genuine consolation and comfort to this child that he didn't even refer to as _human_ out loud. His mind, especially his _subconscious_ mind, had an agenda of it's own, it seemed.

"I spent so long … learning how to please you," The boy sniffled, "And then I _finally_ get the chance and … and … There's something – something in my throat, I can't … _I can't breathe_ —"

Harry was trembling, and the hilarity of all of this vanished rather quickly, along with any sexual arousal that Voldemort was feeling only moments ago. And wasn't _that_ strange, as well? How was Harry controlling him so effortlessly, after being taught to do the exact _opposite_? Never – in the history of all things, had someone else's distress laid any effect at all on The Dark Lord's mood. Maybe it was the bonding of their souls. He would attempt to diagnose it later.

"You're having a panic attack," He sighed out, "At _my expense_ , which is utterly ridiculous, if I'm being honest. If I was displeased with you, I would _punish you_ , obviously. I have no qualms about doing so."

Harry opened teary eyes, and Voldemort recalled one of the strange observations Lucius had pointed out to him. How the boy never cried, only _screamed_. Shrieked, and shrieked, and shrieked, but never a single sob of sadness – only anger, and then, later, submission. Harry only _cried_ in his nightmares. He had cried when he'd visited the shattered pieces of his past, and now, he cried at what he perceived to be failure.

"Harry do I strike you as someone you prioritizes my physical pleasure over mental?"

A meek shake of the head is given in response, and Voldemort continues.

"What I wanted was the worship you have given me – the victory I have over your mind brings me much more joy than a few teaspoons of liquid erupting from my penis, I assure you. I have never taken a lover who did not _obsess_ over pulling physical satisfaction from me. You are young, and headstrong, and _yourself_ – and so enamored by me that you became … quite flatteringly overwhelmed. _That_ pleases me. So desist immediately with all of this idiotic overreaction."

Harry relaxed, some. He remained silent but loosened his grip and eventually the trembling and shakiness in his breathing calmed as well. This, too, was pleasing for Voldemort and he rewarded his dog with another kiss. Again, to his forehead, although … he missed the scar by a few centimeters.

 **XxBxExLxOxVxExDxX**

Getting used to having Voldemort around was strange, but not difficult. They slept in the same bed together, now – although Harry had yet to actually _witness_ his Lord asleep. He knew the man must have done it at some point, but it seemed that even when he himself woke up in the middle of the night, there his Master was, beside him, completely awake. Sometimes, speaking in whispered hisses with Nagini (who seemed to slither about their shared owner's room at her will, seeking his attention constantly). Sometimes, reading a book, (and how odd, wasn't it, that Voldemort, who Harry had always thought of as purely an intellectual so seemed to most genuinely enjoy works of fiction). Sometimes, scribbling on parchment, complex runes and symbols decorating the page in miraculous drawings that Harry couldn't even begin to comprehend (but every single time he asked, it was explained so simply and with such understanding that it made him wonder at how he'd ever thought this miraculously ingenious man didn't have a capacity for patience).

They spent their days together, as well. Harry trailed along behind his Master. The sight of him in backless-shirts paired with slacks, or even jeans on more casual days, was something the Death Eaters were getting more and more used to, although their snickering and staring did, at times, still prove prevalent. Harry adored sitting at his Master's feet during meetings. He adored the subservience of it. He was learning not only to take pride in his submission, but to _crave_ it, to _love_ it. Especially when he had a chance to flaunt it.

He attended a meeting with Voldemort that was to include the entire assembled dark army, rather than the usual inner circle, and spent the entire first half of it on all fours, with his Master's feet rested quite deliberately uncomfortably on his _head_ , forcing him to keep his shoulders stiff and support the weight of the other man's legs with his quickly-cramping neck. It hurt. He could hear Lucius' condescending tone echoing in his head, reminding him that any pain he suffered at the Malfoy patriarch's hand would be _nothing_ compared to the pain he received from the Dark Lord.

And hadn't the blond been right? Oh, yes. It had been _nothing_ , compared to **this** , because where Lucius could only ever bring him pain – the physical tortures of Voldemort's ministration brought only pleasure.

He stayed still, being used like furniture, until his Master rearranged his position to sit up straight, snapping his fingers to indicate Harry should come and sit on the floor beside him. At some point during this long ordeal, however, Harry had become unforgivingly _hard_. While he and Voldemort had, in the past few weeks, indulged in plenty of kisses, and quite a few more episodes of that incredible _frottage_ business that they'd tried their first night together – it was more infrequent than Harry would have liked. Especially considering he had still never _finished his Master off_. The guilt at this reoccurring debacle however was quickly abated when he realized that Voldemort really, really, _really did_ mean it when he'd alluded to a preference for Harry's own orgasms rather than having one himself. It seemed out of character, to Harry, for a man so distinctly _narcissistic and selfish_ , but he went along with it.

But then the morning wood had started coming in to play, which complicated things, since Voldemort was an early riser (no pun intended) and did not display any intention of having morning _sex_ before getting to more productive parts of his day. Like, for example, _this meeting_.

So here Harry was, sitting at his Master's feet where he so _gladly_ belonged, only hard as a rock, and with no way of solving that problem. He'd been still and bared it for a very, very long time – but with Voldemort's hand returning to idly tug at his hair (an action that Harry was starting to realize occurred when the man was _bored_ of what his followers were telling him, which was hilarious in and of itself) it became more and more difficult to be still.

Harry was reminded of the first Death Eater meeting he'd attended, and how he'd been squirming so much because he longed to be here, at his Lord's side. He had that now – it was selfish to be restless wanting more. Maybe, he reasoned, he was just as selfish as the man who owned him. The slight wriggling had been tolerated, although he knew his Master must have _noticed_ , but when some lower-ranked idiot had started droning on and on about foreign exchange policy and Harry had been so bold as to exhale what could not be mistaken for anything other than an annoyed and impatient sigh, the hand in his hair tightened suddenly and he was yanked to his feet without warning.

"Master?" He squeaked, knowing well that he was in trouble, but unsure how to react. In all of their time together, Harry had never actually _been punished_. He had been beginning to think it was something that Voldemort just wasn't going to do, but realized that he had been _quite wrong_ when a rib-shattering hex hit him square in the chest. He jumped back several feet, crumbling on the ground and hugging his arms to his chest desperately. He was _pissed_. He'd barely done anything wrong! He could hear Lucius _preening_ in his seat, likely overjoyed to see the dog finally receiving the pain he'd always promised Voldemort would, eventually give. Harry's eyes cut over to the blond man, and his magic stirred angrily, numbing the pain and readying him to _strike_ but then-

"You would dare _consider_ harming one of my faithful, Zagar?" The tone was even, high, cold. Nothing like the way Voldemort spoke when he was explaining complex spells, or reading aloud from his fiction novels, or whispering to Nagini. But he was the same man, of course. Harry adored him with no regard. He did not, however, answer the question – instead bending over and heaving out blood as the remains of what was his _rib cage_ sliced cruelly at his inner organs. He was dying. Fast. Lungs filling with blood, everything breaking down, only … no. Against all odds he was _not_ quite dying, but his scar … was burning. Burning _horribly_ , like it never had before – and he realized, quite suddenly, that he _should have been dead_ , but _could not die_ , unless his Lord allowed and intended it.

He sobbed. Not quite from relief, and certainly not from the physical pain, but from … the connection. This life they shared. His heart fluttered in his chest, but it did not _stop_ , and he could vaguely hear Lucius' inquiring over what curse had made the dog _cry_ like that.

"It's useless to shout at a _mutt_ for misbehaving," Voldemort sighed out, standing and coming over to where Harry still lay, in euphoric defeat, bleeding out and undead, "The dog looks up at you, as you scream and wail, and only thinks: there is my beloved Master, talking to me, looking right at me, _noticing me_ – I must have done something right."

He bends at the waist, takes Harry's hand in his own and pulls him up in a surprisingly gentle motion, "But if you constantly _beat_ the beast, it will only learn to bite," He conjures a damp cloth, and begins to wipe the blood away from Harry's mouth, and there is agony. Terrible, crippling agony as Harry feels his ribs recomposing and shifting back into place, "Nurture the creature with affection, and it remains loyal even if you take it away," He banishes the cloth and then his hand comes down _hard_ , slapping Harry with enough force that he nearly falls back over.

"The dog does not think to strike me back, he wants only to feel my hand again on his worthless skin," As if to prove a point, Voldemort hits him _again_ , and Harry is, despite himself, despite his _near death_ just moments ago – growing hard once more. How fucking pathetic. How _horrific_ that the Dark Lord is right. Harry would take any form of touch from him. No matter how it came, and interpret it as pleasure. When had he become so brainwashed? He wondered. How was it fair to only hold on to enough of himself to recognize that this was not natural – but never enough to want it any other way?

Voldemort, of course, always feels the need to show off. He takes out his wand, the Elder Wand, and hands it to Harry, "Hold this for me," He commands, and Harry grasps the death stick wearily, "Point it at my heart," With a shaking hand, Harry again does as he's told, and the Death Eaters are disturbingly silent, some of their mouths gaping open. Are they more surprised by their Lord's trust, or by Harry's failure to break it?

"Spells read intention, yes?" Red eyes trail over the crowd, and there are a few hesitant nods, all of them nervous. Harry feels tears streaking at his face again, and silently pleads with his Master not to ask him to do what he knows is about to be asked of him. He does not trust himself – does not trust in this _magic trick_ to work. What if he accidentally—

"Say it, Zagar," Voldemort jeers, and Harry shakes his head 'no', earning himself another hard smack that almost causes the wand to slip from its position, "Show them who my _most loyal_ is, Harry. Say it,"

He gulps, winces his eyes shut, "Avada Kedavra," It's more a whimper, less a spell – no conviction, not even the slightest twitch of action.

"Like you mean it, Harry. You know how to cast a spell, don't you?"

The mockery annoys him, and he opens his eyes again to glare, rudely, and speaks evenly the next time. Declaratively. Clearly. Cruelly, " _Avada Kedavra!_ "

Nothing happens. Nothing at all. Not a flinch, not a nosebleed, and Harry realizes that … this supreme show of power is not actually meant to boast Voldemort's _immortality_. It's meant to boast his own complete and utter devotion. He tries it again, and again, and again, and the Death Eaters get more and more antsy as he goes on, and there's a moment where he wonders if maybe he's not even able to _cast_ the killing curse. Unable to resist with the chance so _fleeting_ , he turns quickly – pointing the wand at Lucius instead, and lets the deathly phrase fall from his lips once more:

"Avada Kedavra,"

And there the blond lay, a moment later. Dead in a flash of green light. They were all staring at him in shock and _mild_ terror, and Harry's own eyes widened right back at them, clearing his throat, "Sorry I – erm – I thought maybe it was just _me_ , but um … aha, I guess it's _not_ ,"

Voldemort looked noticeably perturbed, but returned to his seat without a comment, and Harry quickly handed his wand back and shuffled to his own designated spot as well. The meeting carried on, as if nothing horribly important had occurred, everyone afraid to bring it up in conversation. No one looking to where Lucius Malfoy's body lay still on the marble ground of his own floor. This, small moment, felt like justice. It felt good, and right, and like everything was coming full circle. Harry could not be killed, because Voldemort was too fierce a protector of his soul. Harry could not kill Voldemort, because at some point he had genuinely lost the will to do so.

But Lucius. Harry would kill him again, and again, and _again_ if he could. Each and every day, for the rest of his life. For now, however – just today would have to suffice.

* * *

 **A/N: I know that it's kind of ooc for Voldemort to let Harry do something like that but … there is some growth in him that is not as obviously apparent as the actions and behaviors it's encouraging.**

 **A big thanks to you guys for always waiting so patiently for these updates, I REALLY appreciate it! Also, massive thank you to all of those who read, subscribe, favorite, and review! You are my life blood and I thank you for keeping this lonesome writer afloat!**

 **With love,**

 **-Beloved**


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